Conversational Vulcan
by Blue Moon3
Summary: WIP. When it comes to learning languages, a person is so much better than a computer. When Uhura tracks down the only Vulcan in Starfleet, she has no idea of the events she's setting in motion.
1. June

_Disclaimer: Characters, places, etc. aren't mine. The beginning quote is, as I'm sure you've all guessed, Rogers and Hammerstein. Storyline's mine._

_Author's Note: Thanks to my beta reader Darry._

**Conversational Vulcan**

"_Let's start at the very beginning,_

_A very good place to start."_

"Damnit, it's not fair!"

With a sigh of exasperation, Uhura pressed her thumb to the broad yellow pause button on her PADD, removing the headphones from her ears. Her face, however, registered only a mild spark of irritation as she looked up at her Orion room mate, sprawled on the opposite bed. "What's not fair now?"

"I got the freaking Vulcan."

Uhura blinked her dark eyes. For a specialist – or, at least, future specialist – in Xeno-linguistics, she was finding it oddly difficult to follow the conversation with her alien friend. "Sorry, but you'll have to start at the beginning. What Vulcan?"

"Commander Spock," Gaila enunciated. She turned her PADD to face Uhura, tapping at a line of text with a red lacquered nail. Leaning forward and squinting, Nyota saw that it was Gaila's timetable. "He's the half-Vulcan teacher, some kind of genius, and everyone says the guy has, like, _no_ sense of humour. I got him for First Contact Protocol and Advanced Geological Analysis. Which I _thought_ would be fun."

Nyota had heard nothing past 'half-Vulcan'. She blinked and shook her head, a half-smile of disbelieving excitement beginning to curl her lips. "There's a Vulcan teaching here and no one thought to tell me?"

Gaila frowned and shrugged. "You're a Linguist, he's a Scientist. Why would you know?"

She grinned and tossed her PADD negligently onto the bed. "I have studying to do, I'll be in the library." Standing, Nyota straightened her short skirt and walked briskly to the door. She paused briefly, looking over her shoulder with a hand on the door frame. "Spock, right?"

Gaila nodded. "Unfortunately, yes."

*

Three weeks later, Cadet Uhura found herself straightening her skirt once more. She then smoothed a hand over her silky hair, and smudged her thumbs up from under her eyes to remove any make up smears. While she knew that Vulcans placed far more emphasis on the internal workings of a person's mind than their outward appearance, Nyota could not help the instinct that first impressions were _always_ important. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand and pressed her thumb to the pressure pad that requested entrance to Commander Spock's quarters.

The minute and a half she spent waiting for the door to be answered was possibly the longest she had stood through since waiting for Starfleet's response to her application. Eventually, and inevitably, however, the door opened. Nyota allowed herself only a moment to regard the man – Vulcan, she mentally corrected – who stood before her. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with attractive facial features, by human standards: deep brown eyes, cupid-bow lips, a high, strong jaw line. His appeal was only very slightly damaged by the truly appalling haircut that all Vulcans seemed to favour. Commander Spock tilted his head slightly, revealing the delicate point to his ears that matched the upward sweep of his eyebrows, marking him out as something alien.

Quickly affixing a smile to her lips, Uhura took a deep breath and began the speech it had taken her three weeks to perfect. "Good evening, Commander Spock. I am sorry to disturb you," she recited in perfect standardised Vulcan. "My name is Nyota Uhura, and I am a student in Xeno-linguistics. It is my love-" She cut off immediately, eyes flicking to the right as she mentally re-played the phrase she had just spoken. "That's not right," she murmured, returning to lingua franca. "It is my..."

"Desire?" Spock supplied in Vulcan, eyebrow raised.

Nyota's smile was now embarrassed. "Thank you. Desire." She cleared her throat, determined not to let the slip-up ruin the over-all effect of the talent she knew could be developed with just a little bit of help. "It is my desire to specialise in Vulcan and Romulan dialects, specifically the ancient," she paused and breathed, preparing for the longer technical terms in the foreign tongue, "etymological divergences between the two standardised languages and their subsequent regional dialects." Nyota indicated the end of her speech with a small, proud nod of her head.

Spock paused a moment more than made her entirely comfortable, before replying, "This is a fine choice of study, cadet, but I fail to comprehend what would bring you to my quarters. I am a science scholar."

"And a Vulcan," Uhura quickly replied, following his lead and returning to the familiar lingua franca. "I have all of the technical and grammatical texts and teachings I could possibly need to do well, but to truly excel I need practice. How many Vulcan dialects do you speak fluently, Commander?"

She could tell from the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth that he was growing interested in her proposal. "Five," he replied.

"My most experienced professor is fluent in three, conversational in one and patchy in six. And speaks only standard Romulan fluently, none of the dialects – I'm doing my learning from tape recordings." She risked an extra step forward. "I understand that you're a busy man, but..." she shrugged lightly. "Any time you could spare me would be very much appreciated, Commander."

Spock considered for only a moment. "I will confer with your senior supervisor. If she concurs that this is an adequate course of action, then perhaps we could meet for one evening a week?"

The result was better than Nyota had dared hope. She beamed and had to physically restrain herself from approaching her senior officer. "Thank you, sir, thank you so much."

That odd quirking of his lips again, and he inclined his head. "Then I will bid you good evening, Cadet Uhura."

"Yes, commander," she said in Vulcan. "Good evening."

The door slid shut behind Uhura. She had already begun her way back down the corridor, a spring in her booted step. Gaila could say whatever she liked about Commander Spock's sense of humour, if he was willing to take on an extra student out of the goodness of his green heart, he was alright by her.

Back in his quarters, Spock frowned at the grey panel of his closed door. Or, at the least, his eyebrows were drawn together very marginally, and his lips slightly pursed. This was as extreme a reaction as Spock ever allowed himself, to any kind of situation. "Singular young woman," he muttered to himself before, with a slight shake of his head, he returned to his quarters and his not insignificant pile of marking.

*

It had taken Nyota much longer than she had anticipated to decide whether to wear her Cadet uniform to her first tutorial with Commander Spock. Most cadets wore them all the time, even to the local bars and through free periods or the rare unscheduled weekend, but it had always seemed a bit arrogant to her. Star Fleet was Uhura's love and her primary ambition, but it did not define who she was. Then she remembered that, even in his private time, Commander Spock had been wearing his black uniform, gold insignia polished and gleaming. It would be best, perhaps, to allow him to set the tone. If she turned up and he was in a smoking jacket and carpet slippers, she could always adjust her appearance next week.

The image that thought conjured raised a small, nervous smile. She spread lip gloss across her lips, pressed them together and pouted at the mirror. Subtle make up, hair in a simple pony tail. Uhura was anxious to please her new teacher in any way she could, and hoped her appearance gave her an air of capable efficiency.

Gaila was out on a date – naturally – but had left her a note wishing her luck. Her room mate called her a glutton for punishment, but wished her luck all the same. With a small smile, Nyota tucked the note away in her jewellery box. With a final check in the mirror, Uhura turned on the spot and marched from her quarters.

A brisk walk and three flights of stairs later, she stood once more outside the blank surface of Commander Spock's door. She pressed the panel beside the door and waited, no less nervously than she had a week ago. This time, however, the door opened almost immediately. "Come in, Cadet," the familiar, level voice called from within. Nyota took a quick breath, and stepped over the threshold.

As she had expected, his quarters were spartan, and contained no furniture but the standard Star Fleet issue. The room was, however, much larger than hers, initially opening into a living space with a counter top that, she assumed, served as a kitchenette. It was at this counter that Commander Spock stood, with his back to the room. "My human colleagues usually request coffee on their visitations. I took the liberty of assuming this would be amenable to you also." He glanced over his shoulder to gauge her reaction.

Nyota nodded and smiled. "That's very kind, thank you."

"In standardised Vulcan?" he prompted, returning his attention to the percolating coffee pot.

Uhura paused only a moment, surprised to feel a small thrill of academic excitement at the challenge. "Thank you for your consideration," she said, her diction and pronunciation flawless even to her own critical ear.

"Please make yourself comfortable," Spock said, in a slightly different dialect – unfamiliar, yet recognisable and translatable, with a little effort.

Uhura smiled, certain now that she had made the best possible decision for her academic future. She perched nervously on the long, cushioned stool at the centre of the room. In front of her stood a glass coffee table, a PADD lying atop it. Twisting her head and leaning forward, Nyota read a few lines of Earth poetry – John Donne, if her memory served her right. "The metaphysical poets intrigue me," Spock murmured as he walked towards her, cup of steaming coffee in his hand.

Nyota shot upright, trying to keep the guilty expression from her face. She had only been in his room for five minutes, and already he'd caught her prying. "I'm sorry, sir," she said quickly.

"Converse in Vulcan during your time here, please," he said, his voice as flat and even as ever. It was almost hypnotic, really, the soft inflections and cadences that her ear had been trained to pick up. Like the voices on her recordings, but different; caused perhaps by the human emotions that must exist, however well suppressed, beneath each and every one of his words.

"Yes, sir," she replied softly, "My apologies."

"'Sir' is not adequate to the situation at hand," he said, stooping to sit opposite her. He steepled his fingers before his face, brown eyes watching her intently. "I am not a teacher in this situation. I am ... an informed third party. As such, there is no need for formality within this room. You may call me Spock."

That would take some getting used to, and Nyota knew it. There was something about the Vulcan that demanded respect, and the best way a linguist knew to show respect was by using their title. Still, he was the boss. "Very well, Spock. You may call me Uhura."

He tilted his head, expression inquisitive. "I remember that to be your second name. Is it not Earth's custom to use first names in approximately eighty-five per cent of informal occasions, dependent upon the region and circumstances?"

She could not, of course, speak for the specifics of his statistics, but she trusted that his figures were accurate. "My first name doesn't suit me," she said, cleverly including a colloquialism she had noted in the library just that morning. She picked up her coffee cup and blew lightly on the liquid's surface. "It's Nyota."

"Then I must beg to disagree. Nyota _suits_ you very well."

If Uhura didn't know any better, she would swear Spock was performing whatever passed for his version of a smile. She was glad for the low lighting, or there might have been a reasonable chance that Spock would see her blush. As it was, she smiled demurely and sipped at the coffee – which wasn't bad, considering the man who made it had probably never drunk a cup in his life.


	2. August

_Disclaimer: Characters, places, etc. aren't mine. The beginning quote is from Hair written by Rado, Ragni and MacDermot. Storyline's mine._

_Author's Note: Thanks to my beta reader Darry._

**August**

"_Let the sun shine_

_Let the sunshine in."_

It was surprising, Spock mused one morning, that he had not noticed Cadet Nyota Uhura once during her first year's matriculation at the Academy. Yet in the two months that had passed since they began their evening meetings, he seemed to see her everywhere. Most peculiar.

At the moment he thought this, Spock was enjoying a rare unscheduled fifteen minutes in the sun. It was the height of summer in San Francisco and, despite the lush green grass and audible flowing water, the climate at least reminded him of home. For a month or two in every Earth year, Spock was utterly content with his surroundings. With these particular fifteen minutes, he chose to sit on the grass before the Academy building, out of its shadow and far enough from the path for relative privacy. Legs crossed and spine straight as an arrow, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly, allowing the sun to beat down upon his face.

This was no place for meditation, but it was an interesting exercise to be still in such a frenetic environment. Birds – sea gulls, were they called? – cried from the water's edge, their voices shrill and mournful. Far over head, he heard the rush and hum of passing shuttles. But above all this, the varied and ceaseless noise of human life: calling, laughing, whispering, complaining.

Was it Cadet Uhura, Spock wondered briefly, who had taught him the importance of individual cadence? Of paying close attention to the minute details of the spoken word?

"Fine, whatever, just quit pestering me!"

The voice was female, deep and assured. She elongated her vowels very slightly, and rounded her 'r's so her tongue slipped easily to the next sound to be formed without pause or hesitation. Her plosives, however, were sharp, and the vowels that followed were slightly higher in both pitch and volume. This intonation, if not her actual wording, suggested irritation.

The over-all vocal scale was familiar and, blinking his eyes to adjust to the harsh sunlight, he saw Nyota striding briskly up the path towards the Academy. Her hair, tied in its usual efficient pony tail, swayed in time to her quick, determined movements. The sunshine complimented her dark skin tone, bare legs almost gleaming in the warm light. Despite their very different ancestral planets, they were, he thought with a facial tick approaching a smile, both born to thrive in the sun. Behind her, another cadet half-jogged to keep up with her. Again, a smile threatened to tug at Spock's lips. Nyota set her own pace, and left the rest of the universe to keep stride with her.

"Be coy all you like; I knew you couldn't refuse."

The young man's arrogant nasal twang was also vaguely familiar. Cadet Kirk. A high-performing student, though disruptive in seminars or any other academic institution where there was the slightest possibility he would be allowed to contribute an opinion. Spock rarely regarded his attendance with pleasure.

Before Nyota could respond, Kirk tugged her hair and jogged into the Academy building. She turned to slap at him, but he was too fast for her. She let out a strangled noise of frustration but, even from a distance of seven-point-three metres, Spock could see that she was smiling.

Humans – full humans, he mentally corrected himself – were an odd race. He tried to imagine his mother having such a favourable reaction to mild physical abuse, but Spock could not conceive of such a situation. Perhaps that was because of her advanced age in comparison to Cadet Uhura.

Ten minutes had passed since Spock deviated from his daily routine, and he stood smoothly to return to his duties. Reaching an upright position, he tugged at the bottom of his tunic and brushed down his pants, before marching smartly across the grass towards the path. He travelled approximately four metres when Nyota noticed him.

"Good afternoon, Commander," she said brightly, the cadence of her voice higher and sharper than it had been with Kirk.

"Good afternoon, Cadet Uhura," he replied in his own even tone. He did not pause as he joined her on the asphalt path but as Uhura had with Kirk, continued at his own pace and knew she would fall into step beside him. "May I expect you at eighteen-hundred this evening?"

"Yes, sir," she said, the formalities they kept in public sounding discordant coming from her lips. "I have been looking closely at the Northern-Hemisphere Romulan dialect. Would that be OK for tonight?"

Spock inclined his head, slowing slightly as they entered the Academy and had to weave between the cadets and graduates who congregated in the hallways. "That is acceptable. Coffee will be prepared."

She smiled. Spock always felt a distant tingle of the emotion he termed 'pride' when he made her smile. "See you later, Commander."

Spock did not reply, but paused outside his office door to watch her depart. Hair swaying, limbs loose and comfortable, she turned without pausing to greet friends and colleagues as she passed by. In many respects she was no different than her fellows: young, clever, ambitious, perhaps slightly more aesthetically pleasing – though a critical eye could find minute symmetrical faults in her facial features. Yet there was something that made her stand out from the crowd of young people around her.

"Fascinating," Spock muttered to himself, before opening his office door and returning to his scheduled daily routine.

*

When Spock was a young boy, his father had used a metaphor to explain how Vulcans experience emotion. He had likened the undoubtedly existing but always suppressed feelings to an underground water source. The water flowed deep beneath the ground, nourishing the surface but without breaking or eroding it. It was untouchable, inaccessible, and strictly controlled to its own path. It never broke free, it never changed course. It existed and had purpose, but was not allowed to deviate or effect the ground above in any way.

Spock had designed his own metaphor for the peculiar existence of his own fleeting, human emotions. He thought of his emotional centre as a large, solid glass box. It was sealed tightly at every corner and edge. It sat squarely in the middle of his mental landscape, surrounded by the logic that roamed freely and governed his every thought and action. Ever-present but generally benign. The nature of the box, however, meant that he could look in on his emotions, from time to time. For every switch and change of his environment, the ever-morphing contents of his box would display what Spock might feel, were he entirely human. The box held gases of varying colours, which Spock had learned to interpret, with the help of his mother. The vapours presented themselves, even sometimes seemed to press against the glass, but never broke through. Spock found this useful as it meant he could refer to his emotions, in a detached fashion, without being governed by them. Ultimately, logic was a better system of cognitive decision-making. Emotions, while pretty, were inefficient.

As he stirred the coffee for Cadet Uhura, Spock wondered whether he would ever know her well enough to explain the glass box. It was illogical to do so – they were, however informally, teacher and student – but they had covered many personal topics in their conversations. Spock knew a varying number of details, most of them insignificant, regarding Nyota's childhood and her life before Starfleet. It had been logical to pick a topic for their discussions, and Nyota seemed to be comfortable and open talking about her home life, sometimes explaining facets of human existence that had previously been incomprehensible to Spock.

Incomprehensible facets of human existence. The internal phraseology reminded Spock of the topic he most wished to raise with his student.

Informal greetings exchanged and coffee served, Spock sat opposite Nyota. He steepled his fingers before his face, as was his custom, and watched his companion sip her coffee for a moment before beginning.

"May I ask you something which might be considered personal?" Spock asked in flawless Northern-Romulan.

"Of course," she said brightly, slipping easily into the less formal dialect. She set the cup lightly on the low table before her.

"I was observing your dialogue with Cadet Kirk this morning," he began, a small frown drawing his eyebrows together, "and your responses were not what I expected. You seemed to ... enjoy his actions. Is this a normal human response?"

Nyota's eyes flicked to the right as she accessed her memory banks, a facial tick Spock found strangely reassuring. Then her face broke into a wide smile. "Oh, on the lawn? That was just Kirk being a..." She paused, searching for the right insult. Sometimes it was frustrating, learning a language academically without the vernacular expletives. "Being his normal arrogant self," she finished blandly.

"That much was apparent," Spock said, in what was barely recognisable as a sour tone. "But, unless my understanding of human facial expressions is flawed, you followed the exchange by smiling. Both your lips and eyes were animated in the expression. I have come to understand this as an expression of humour or joy." He leaned forward, his body language but not his face reflecting the deep orange that suffused the glass box, suggesting enjoyment at intellectual stimulation. "Forgive me, but is it part of some mating ritual?"

As they had that morning, Nyota's mouth widened and curved, her eyes creased, and she looked up to the ceiling, expelling air from her lungs in a short burst of laughter. "No. Though, I can see why you might think that. It was _Kirk's_ mating ritual. But not mine. I looked happy because I was laughing at him, not with him. That's an important distinction in human culture."

"Intriguing," Spock mused, leaning back once more. He frowned in concentration, processing this new information. "Is it possible for the other party to distinguish between the two forms of laughter? For example, are you currently laughing 'with' or 'at' me?"

From anyone else, from any human, the question might have been a test of loyalty. From Spock, it was merely a genuine academic query.

Nyota's smile changed, the curve of her lips softening, though her eyes were still creased and still seemed to shine with the mirth that so often brightened human features. "Perhaps it is possible, but I couldn't hazard a theory on how. At least, not based on any kind of body language or phonology of speech. We use instinct to tell the difference. And I don't know how to teach that."

Spock nodded once more, and remained silent as Nyota picked up her cup to sip once more at her coffee.

"Oh, and I was laughing with you," she said softly over the rim. Her eyes creased more, pupils dilating slightly. "I don't think I could laugh _at_ you if I tried."

In Spock's mental landscape, an unfamiliar royal purple mist shot through the other coloured gases that made up his contained emotions. It was something new and different that Spock wasn't sure how to explain or label. It was, however, a pleasing sensation.

Or would have been, if he had allowed himself to feel it.


	3. October

_Disclaimer: Characters, places, etc. aren't mine, they belong to a complex network of people starting with Gene Rodenberry. The quote is from "Rebel" by Green Day. Storyline's mine._

_Author's Note: Thanks to my beta reader Darry._

**October**

"_She's a rebel, she's a saint_

_She's the salt of the earth, and she's dangerous."_

Uhura managed to wait until half past five. She wasn't sure she could hold onto herself much longer than that, and had marched neatly across the quad to the Commanding Officers' Halls. Her stride was only as brisk as it ever was, but her hands curled into fists at her sides, betraying the emotions that simmered just below the surface.

Pressing the door chime, she went over in her head the speech she had been rehearsing since sixteen-hundred hours that afternoon. She had been trying so hard to keep a cool head. Her temper rarely got her anywhere. But nothing inflamed those emotions like betrayal.

The door slid open and Uhura took a deep, steadying breath. In the doorway stood Spock, as impassive and implacable as he had been on their first meeting. "Nyota. You are early," he stated, without the barest hint of surprise.

Where Uhura had come to find Spock's omni-present calm reassuring over the preceding months, on this occasion it only served to infuriate her further. "Yes," she struggled to emulate his even tone of voice. "May I come in?"

Without responding verbally, Spock stood aside to let her pass. Once she had done so and the door closed behind her, he moved toward the small kitchenette. "Lights," he commanded the computer, and it illuminated the small work surface. "Please be seated, Nyota, and I will prepare you some coffee."

"Thank you, but no," she said in Vulcan.

Something in her tone made Spock pause. He turned on the spot, pale face a blank mask of polite interest – as ever. He moved to the seating area and perched on his customary stool. Uhura remained standing. She would happily have graduated to pacing, would have welcomed the excuse to burn off some of the excess adrenaline that coiled unpleasantly in the pit of her stomach – but she would not do that, not when he could sit so calmly, gaze at her so levelly. She would not give him a reason to look down on her, with all her emotional weaknesses. They made her strong, she told herself firmly. They were an asset, not a failing, no matter what he thought.

"Please continue," he said softly.

Now the moment came, all her careful planning gave way to the feelings that consumed her. "What the hell were you thinking?" she demanded, her breathing coming hard and rugged.

Very briefly, an image passed into her mind. Her mother, tall and formidable, hands on broad hips, head tilted to the side. "Don't use that tone of voice with me, girl, I don't care what kind of twist your panties are in." The memory – those same words used on so many different occasions – threatened to make her laugh. She somehow doubted that Spock's reaction to her quick temper would be nearly so benign.

Spock blinked once, the only movement of his face. Though there was a slight edge to his voice as he said, "In Vulcan, please. I believe that was our agreement."

Uhura swallowed. She hadn't even noticed the switch to Swahili. It had been several years since anyone had got her so riled up she had to return to her first language. Continuing instead in Lingua Franca as a compromise, she raised her chin and confessed, "I can't. I'm too angry, I can't express myself properly."

"That is something you will have to master, if-"

"iPlease/i don't side-track me," she said, then immediately flushed as she realised she had just interrupted a superior officer. Among other things. "Look, I've just spent the last hour and a half comforting Gaila because she thinks iyou're/i going to chuck her out of Starfleet for something that wasn't her fault."

That drew a raised eyebrow. "I do not recall threatening anything of the kind," Spock said, determinedly sticking to Vulcan.

But the language was precise and cold, like Earth's ancient Latin. A tongue designed for accuracy rather than expression. This rendered it inadequate to Uhura's requirements, and she continued, with equal determination, in Lingua Franca. "You told her that her brain is made of cotton wool. What was she isupposed/i to think?"

Uhura was infuriated further to see the corner of Spock's mouth twitch. "You are misinformed. I merely stated that the Cadet's cranial cavity could not possibly contain a typical cerebral cortex. Though, given the circumstances, 'cotton wool' may prove an accurate suggestion. You may tell her I applaud her supposition, but do not appreciate her false recounting of our discussion."

"It's not a discussion when you're dressing down a student in front of the whole class."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steadily, heatedly focussed on Uhura's face. "When called upon, she could not answer three questions in succession. She had clearly not prepared herself for the course. Adequate preparation is a requirement of all Starfleet courses of study. It is Starfleet's rule that she has broken, not mine."

"She did the reading," Uhura protested. "I'm her roommate; I watched her sit for three hours with the damn book in her lap. She wouldn't let me put out the light until it was done." Gaila was certainly not the most studious of students. She came with a natural disadvantage in some respects: her over-active libido was a distraction as much as a coping mechanism. But her species' physical aptitude and sociability also made them invaluable on matters of diplomacy with other life forms. She would be an excellent officer, if she could be rational for long enough to pass the written tests. Uhura liked to think her influence kept Gaila's feet on the ground.

"Then how do you explain her demonstrable absence of knowledge?" Spock demanded quite levelly.

She finally sat, leaning forward, gesturing animatedly with her hands. "Gaila's Orion," she said, as though that explained everything. To Uhura, who had spent a year and a half deep in conversation with Gaila, picking up the subtleties of her language as she did with Spock, it did explain everything.

"Thank you, Nyota, I had noticed," Spock said, his voice very nearly almost bordering on impatient.

"Then, if you know other cultures like you should, you know that she is subject to high hormonal bursts on a cyclical basis that leave her ... not herself." Uhura flushed again, her mind flitting to the undulating pattern of male visitors who passed through their shared room; the number of times she had returned from the library to discover she was required to take a walk around the block.

"I am aware," Spock said, pulling her from her reverie, "of the intricacies of the Orion condition. It has not, however, presented an adverse effect on her class work before now. It is Starfleet's policy to avoid positive discrimination."

"Extenuating circumstances," Uhura said quickly, feeling that she was at least beginning to pull him around. She paused, hoping that would be enough; hoping he wouldn't actually make her say it. But the only response from her Vulcan companion was an arched eyebrow – an indication to continue. Taking a deep breath, she ploughed on, hoping to get the explanation out of the way as quickly and painlessly as possible. "Jim Kirk was sat in front of her. I'm reliably informed he didn't shower before class. Apparently, his pheromones were ... distracting." She implied but did not explicitly reference the over-whelming lust that Gaila had quite unashamedly described in their room. Sometimes – just sometimes – sharing with a sexually peaked Orion female was not easy.

Spock leaned back, processing the new information. Uhura sat on her hands to keep from cracking her knuckles. Awkward silences had always made her edgy.

"Do you wish me to speak with Cadet Kirk?" Spock asked eventually. It was as close to an admission of error as Uhura expected she would ever get.

She sighed, shaking her head. "No. I don't really know what I wanted." She let out a nervous laugh, glancing around the room. For the first time she was sorry there were no photographs or trinkets to distract herself from Spock's intense gaze. "It just ... wasn't very fair of you."

Spock did not verbally concede the point, but did incline his head. "I will consider such variables more thoroughly in future. Perhaps Cadet Gaila could be more discerning when choosing her seating arrangements?"

As Spock had done, Uhura inclined her head in agreement. She allowed herself a nervous smile. "I'm sorry if I over-reacted. I was just so embarrassed – I've been singing your praises, saying how good it was of you to give up your free time for someone who's not even your student. I really think you're one of the nicest guys in Starfleet."

His head cocked to the side. "Please clarify 'nicest guy'. I do not believe there is an adequate Vulcan translation."

Her dark eyes widened. "Oh," she said softly, and paused to think. He was quite right. To the best of her ever-increasing knowledge, there was no direct equivalent. As much as anything, Uhura knew that if there were then Spock would be the one to know. At a loss, Uhura settled for a lengthier translation in Spock's native dialect. "The most considerate, diplomatic," she smirked, "logical ... and desirable individual in the immediate vicinity."

There went that errant eyebrow again. "'Desirable'?" he qualified, the pitch of his voice rising with the second and last syllable. Despite Uhura's aural sensitivity, she could not tell if he was expressing surprise or merely posing a question.

Before responding, Uhura gave serious thought to her chosen lexis. 'Desirable', if memory served – which Uhura's memory always did – could be accurately defined as a person or object that invokes desire. Desire itself could probably be reasoned out in a number of ways but, on this occasion, Uhura decided she would judge on the scale of her own feelings. She certainly could not deny that Spock was physically attractive. Smooth complexion, large dark eyes, shapely lips – and his lack of expression, when not infuriating, gave his face a doll-like quality. A pretty face alone would not make any man desirable, not to Uhura. But added to this were a formidable intellect, carefully veiled but clearly present sense of humour, and strangely appealing awkward social manner. All these qualities made Spock more than qualified to fit the word.

Still there was more. There was the flutter of pleasure Uhura felt in her chest when his lips twitched into a Spock-smile. There was the fact that, when his finger slid across the pressure-sensitive surface of his PADD, she couldn't look away.

It quickly became apparent that she had been lost in thought too long. She smiled awkwardly, closely examining the hands folded neatly in her lap. "Desirable," she confirmed, vocal pitch rising on the second syllable and flattening on the last.

She would not look at him. She absolutely would not look at him, because that would cause her third blush in much-too-short-a-time, and she just iknew/i he would be counting.

Uhura herself had counted to twenty before Spock spoke again. "It is eighteen-hundred hours. Would you like to continue the evening as planned?"

"That would be nice," Uhura replied honestly.

"Vulcan, Nyota," he said, pausing a beat before adding, "please."

She smiled. "That would be desirable," she said in her precise Standard Vulcan.

Spock stood and turned his back to make coffee. She couldn't be certain, but she was fairly sure he was wearing his Spock-smile. "Tell me about your day," he requested over his shoulder, as he usually did.

Uhura took a breath, pleased that normalcy had returned, and replied in the language that she was increasingly coming to think of as one of her own.


	4. December

_Disclaimer: Characters, places, etc. aren't mine, they belong to a complex network of people starting with Gene Rodenberry. The quote is by The Stereophonics. Storyline's mine._

_Author's Note: Thanks to my beta reader Darry._

**December**

"_It only takes one tree to make a thousand matches_

_It only takes one match to burn a thousand trees."_

Standing on the doorstep with a gift held in his hand, Spock felt oddly self-conscious. It was not an emotion in the strictest sense – though he could not deny the sickly green threads of awkwardness that laced through his glassy emotional centre. It was more an awareness that he was not in his normal environment. Though Spock had been teaching at the Academy for five years, and a student for four years before that, it had always been a rare occasion that found him lingering in the hallways of the cadets' Halls of Residence. Spock was a purposeful being, and seldom lingered anywhere. Particularly at so frantic a time of year.

When the door finally slid open, a full twenty-seven seconds after he had pressed the chime, it was a smiling green face that greeted him. On recognising the officer, however, Gaila's smile quickly faltered. "Oh. Good morning, Commander."

"Good morning, Cadet," he replied. "I had hoped to see Cadet Uhura before her departure."

Gaila looked oddly relieved. Spock had noticed an increased stiffness to the Orion's body language since their altercation in class two months previous. He wondered, fleetingly, if she suspected him of bearing what humans termed a 'grudge'. Leaning back slightly, she turned her head to the side and re-focussed her gaze to something obscured within the room. "Uhura? You have a visitor," she called out in Orion.

Spock had only a moment to process the fact – that should have already occurred to him – that he was not Nyota's only practicing partner.

Nyota's smiling face appeared around the door frame, and Spock took a moment to scan her attire. It was unusual to see cadets in anything other than the red or blue Starfleet uniforms. On this occasion, clearly ready for her journey home, Nyota had changed into a thin black sweater and jeans which fit her slender figure snugly. Her feet were bare, toe nails painted silver. An unnecessary decoration, but intriguing none the less. "Hello, Commander," she said in her bright tone.

Lips quirking, Spock took a half-step closer to the door. "The Terra-date is December twenty-fourth, Nyota," he informed her.

She tilted her head to one side, smiling and looking him directly in the eye. "I am aware of that, Spock." He felt a burst of shimmering purple. In the periphery of his vision he caught Gaila rolling her eyes.

"Well, since we're all being so informal," Gaila said, shifting to stand in the hallway beside Spock, "you should look up, Commander." Spock raised his line of sight to the door lintel. Someone – and no kudos for guessing who – had tacked a plant to the wall above. Two stems of a creeper with thin, rounded leaves and milky white berries. "Mistletoe," Gaila supplied, as though she were not talking to an expert in class M natural environments and species biology. "You Vulcans are big on tradition. You should know what that means."

Unwilling to admit that he did not, Spock returned his gaze to Uhura – who looked distinctly awkward. "At Christmas, couples kiss under the mistletoe." She scowled at Gaila. "It's stupid and antiquated, and _no one_ is paying attention."

"But it's _tradition_," Gaila insisted, her laughing eyes flicking between Spock and Nyota.

Despite his half-human heritage, Spock was very proud of his logic. It was quick and decisive and never flawed because logic was one of very few absolutes in the universe. Applied to the current situation, the most logical course of action was clear to him. Spock wanted to be alone with Nyota. He was, if not in, then just outside of a space that was as much Gaila's as it was Nyota's. He would, therefore, need her to consensually leave the immediate vicinity. Gaila had made it clear that she would not leave until Spock fulfilled the 'tradition' to which the Orion seemed strangely attached. The Starfleet academic term having officially terminated a oh-eight-hundred hours that morning, there were no regulations barring such an action.

He took his second step towards Nyota, bent slightly and pressed his lips to hers.

Spock had seen kisses before, on the old digital Terra movies his mother had loved to watch when he was a boy, and sometimes between couples on campus who believed they were being discreet. One person pressed their lips against another's for a seemingly indeterminate period of time – normally a few seconds – and then parted again. He had seen his mother kiss his father on numerous occasions. As forms of affection went, it did not seem especially stimulating from a third party perspective.

For precisely the twenty-third time in Spock's life, he was wrong.

His first thought was that her skin was quite cool. Purely in physical terms, the action was pleasant. Her lips had the texture of silk, and he could feel the flutter of her lashes against his cheek as her eyes widened in surprise, then closed.

These were all sensations he might have predicted, had he given the action enough thought. What took him utterly by surprise was Nyota's reaction after one-point-eight seconds of oral contact. Her lips, which had been slightly parted in surprise, closed gently causing a slight suction against his lower lip. Behind his eyes, which had inexplicably closed of their own volition, he saw nothing but purple starbursts. A puff of cool breath – Nyota's – tickled over his cheek. Distantly, he felt her hand at his wrist, holding onto his sleeve as she leaned into him.

His body's physiological reaction, had he been in any state to analyse it, would have astounded him. The subtle sensations triggering a cocktail of human hormones to be released into his Vulcan bloodstream: endorphins, adrenaline, pheromones.

All of which brought Spock to a single conclusion. He had been wrong, for the twenty-fourth time. There was a very good reason this had been a highly illogical course of action. Fraternisation with subordinate officers was strictly forbidden by several Starfleet regulations. And though Starfleet's academic term had officially terminated, relieving both Spock and Nyota of their official duties, that would only be the case for the next one hundred and sixty-six hours. Spock did not know how he would keep from bringing about this exhilarating set of sensations when they no longer had the luxury of informality.

Spock pulled away, blinked, and allowed himself a fraction of a second to observe Nyota's flushed face.

Then, turning to a surprisingly un-surprised Gaila, he asked, "Does that satisfy your sense of tradition?"

"I'm going to say goodbye to Jim," Gaila told her room mate, her smile as wide as ever. Leaning closer, she muttered in Orion, "You're welcome." If the young cadet was unaware of her commander's ability to understand Orion, Spock did not feel this was the logical moment to disabuse her.

When Gaila had turned to leave, Nyota shifted in the doorway to allow him to pass. "Come in," she said in perfectly neutral Lingua Franca. Spock wished he had it within him to look reassuring, but did not know which facial distortions would be suitable for such an expression. Instead, he glanced at Nyota, blinked, and walked past her into the room.

During Spock's time as a cadet, he and his human room mate had split the space very clearly down the middle. Spock's half held no personal effects, except the reference PADDs required for various courses and private reading. Similarly, Spock found he could accurately judge which 'side' of the room was Nyota's. There were fourteen small photographs on the wall, twelve of which included her smiling face. On the bed was a PADD with headphones and a closed suitcase. There were no clothes on the floor around this bed – unlike the other. The bedside table held a lamp, a stylus, another PADD, and a potato with plastic facial features pressed into its brown skin. This item was the only mystery.

"Sorry about the mess," Nyota apologised, her voice loud after the silence of the closed room. She deftly kicked a pair of (presumably) Cadet Gaila's underwear under her room mate's bed. "And about Gaila. This whole Christmas thing's got her kind of crazy; I don't know what she was thinking. Plus we're both going away for Christmas. Everything's just ... a bit nuts."

"I do not wish to keep you," Spock said quickly, realising that, however unintentionally, he had already delayed her departure. "It was merely my intention..." he trailed off, at a loss for the adequate words. Instead, he held out the thin, flat present, carefully wrapped in green cellophane. "I believe it is a tradition among your people to give gifts at this time of year."

Nyota was forming the smile where six of her top set of brilliant white teeth showed, and her cheeks glowed from blood rushing close to the surface. Her eyes shone, and were wide in spite of the musculature of her face, which would normally make them crease. "Thank you!" she said, in a voice three semitones higher than normal. Nyota took the gift, held it tenderly. "You really shouldn't have. I don't have anything to give you. And the tradition is to iexchange/i gifts."

"It is not _my_ tradition. Besides which, there is no guarantee you will like it. It is a series of recorded transmissions from my planet, documenting daily and weekly planetary and regionalised events of significance."

She paused for a moment, digesting his words. "You gave me the Vulcan news? How many recordings?"

"Five star date years, approximately nine thousand one hundred and twenty-four hours." He watched as her mouth dropped open. Tilting his head and arching an eyebrow in something approaching amusement, he added, "I can easily acquire more if that is insufficient."

"No," she said quickly, laughter in her eyes, "that's perfect. _It's_ perfect." He had suspected it might be. At their first meeting, Nyota had seemed frustrated at the inadequacy of overly-accurate computer recordings. The broadcasts sent around Vulcan were, while correct in their own way, tinged with the regional accents and idiosyncrasies that play upon any language. "I wish so much I had something to give you," she added.

The reserved Vulcan did not know how to tell Nyota that she had already given him a very special, and entirely unexpected gift. Thinking this, however, caused the very tips of his pointed ears to burn faintly green.

Without showing any sign of having noticed Spock's surprisingly unruly physical reactions, Nyota smiled at him with a teasing glint in her eye. "I suppose you'll be wanting them all translated by the time I come home?"

He tilted his head, eyebrow arched. "An illogical question. Your leave of absence from the Academy can last no longer than one hundred and sixty-six hours from now, and yet you propose listening to over nine-thousand hours' of recordings?" He shook his head, ever so slightly. "Even you, Nyota, could not generate an academic fervour strong enough to bend the laws of time."

It was, he noted, her turn to blush. "No, I don't suppose I could."


	5. New Year

_Disclaimer: Characters, places, etc. aren't mine, they belong to a complex network of people starting with Gene Rodenberry. The quote is from "Auld Lang Syne", originally written by Robert Burns. Story's mine._

_Author's Note: Thanks to my beta reader Darry, and to David for helpful suggestions. And, with this part we're officially caught up with LJ. All updates herein will be as I write them, so apologies if things move ever-so-slightly slower._

**New Year**

"_Should old acquaintance be forgot_

_And never brought to mind?"_

Christmas had been noisy, as Christmas at her parents' house always was. It was filled with comings and goings, old fashioned party games, and far too much rich food. There had also been too many people – aunties, uncles, cousins, sisters, and all with their accompanying partners. This meant that Uhura (who was 'Nyo' when at home), shared her old bedroom with two other women. She didn't mind at all, why would she? Except that the only moments she felt truly alone, during the whole week she was there, were in the early hours of the morning. The steady breathing and pressing darkness of one AM promised her that everyone else was asleep and, in consciousness at least, she was alone. It was in these precious moments, before sleep eventually enveloped her into the strangeness of her dream land, that she allowed herself to remember.

The steady, warm pressure of his lips against hers. His body like steel, so straight and hard and immovable. The gentle hot flutter of his breath against her cheek. And the terrible cold that he left behind when he shifted away again, leaving her wanting more – longer, harder.

In many respects, it was a relief to return to the Academy. No one there would notice she was distracted because she was always distracted, her mind always at least three quarters on a research project or Klingon syntactical issue that had been raised in an earlier class. No one would think, as her mother had done, to ask what else was so good that it kept her mind away from her family.

Like many of the cadets, Uhura had elected to return a day early, on New Year's Eve. Gaila had been delighted to see her, and even helped her carry the stack of PADDs that would not fit in her suitcase. Everyone always got her books for Christmas, and she didn't have the heart to transfer them all onto her one large data PADD in front of everyone. She would recycle the unnecessary and bulky computer panels at school. The only one she had kept separate was the one that Spock had given her. Nine-thousand hours of vocal recordings was a little too much, even for the huge hard drive of her regular PADD. At least, if she also intended to keep all the other material that she needed on there.

Holding the door open so Uhura could pass into their room, Gaila asked, "You're coming out tonight, right?"

"I'll come out, but I'm not drinking," she replied, dumping the heavy suitcase on her bed. Their small room was exactly as she had left it, and it made her smile. It felt like home these days. Her home away from home.

"Famous last words," Gaila teased.

It was a custom in some regions of Earth to be self-effacing about one's appearance, no matter what the actualities of their physical attributes. Personally, Uhura didn't see the point. The fact she was slender and attractive did not detract from her intellect or determination – both of which were far more important in the grand scheme of things. But on the rare occasions that Uhura found that she did want to show off the athletic figure she had worked so hard to achieve, she knew exactly how to do it. A tight black skirt, a short silver shirt and some dangerously high heels later, and Uhura was perfecting the flick of her eyeliner in the mirror.

"We need to go, or the door charge is going to go up," Gaila nagged. It wasn't often she got the chance to hurry her fastidious room mate.

"You can't rush perfection," Uhura murmured, pouting her lips at the mirror. She switched her focus, looking instead at her green-skinned friend in the glassy surface. "Lucky for you, I'm not perfect. Come on, let's go."

After the quick wind that whipped through San Francisco Bay and around the quad of Starfleet Academy that cold December night, the hot press of the Academy bar was almost stifling. The air throbbed with heavy bass beats that hearkened to the 1960s and were all the retro rage. Her hips swayed easily, head nodding in time to the music, and she smiled as Gaila danced off into the darkness.

Flashing lights illuminated portions of the bar, lighting up groups of familiar and unfamiliar faces. She scanned the crowd, looking for one distinctive dark head, without really expecting to see him. Not exactly his scene, she told herself sternly. The room was made up of crowds of rowdy, drunk humans, all bent on getting intoxicated and pressing themselves up against one another. Kissing and pressing and no-doubt screwing, on the flimsy excuse of a day – which could really have been any day – which marked the passage of time on Earth.

"What can I get you?" a familiar voice shouted over the music. She turned, a smile already fixed on her face.

"A shot of Jack for me," she said, automatically taking a step backwards, out of Jim Kirk's personal space. She could hear him just fine above the music, thank you very much. "And a Black Hole for Gaila," she added pointedly.

"Oh, Gaila's here?" he said, half innocent half interested. Uhura couldn't think that Gaila's presence hadn't occurred to him. There was hardly a possibility Gaila would stay in and study when such a marvellous excuse to fornicate lay at her feet. He glanced around the crowd and smiled when he spotted her. "Well, that's great. You can both come and join us. Keep Bones company; his ex-wife's been driving him nuts."

"Oh, can I?" Uhura said in false excitement, her smile genuine this time. She spotted McCoy's sour expression at the other end of the bar. He really did look like he was having a rough time. "I'll go say 'hi'."

"You do that," Kirk muttered in her ear, brushing a little too close for comfort as she passed by.

Three hours, five shots of Jack, four dances with Gaila, two dances with Bones, and a 'thank you' to Kirk for the Mr Potato Head Christmas present later, and Uhura was feeling slightly giddy. She kept glancing about the room, much to her room mate's amusement, but was never satisfied. And each time she told herself it was stupid to expect him, her internal voice sounded a little more petulant.

At a quarter to midnight, she stood up.

"Hey, where are you going? You're going to miss the whole thing!" Bones slurred, smiling lasciviously as his head skewed towards her.

She smiled, giving him a gentle shove back into an upright position; but his head only over-balanced once more and rolled onto Kirk's shoulder. "I forgot something. I won't be a minute." She grinned at Gaila, who had a delicate red eyebrow raised in her direction, despite the attention Kirk was paying to her neck. "Besides, if I miss it, I'm sure there'll be another one next year."

Slipping between the press of bodies, Uhura burst into the cold night air. Looking up, she saw a sea of stars spread out through the black above. She smiled. She would see those stars soon. Two more years, and she'd be up there.

But for the time being, she was very much Earth-bound. And down here, it was cold. Wrapping her arms across her belly, chafing the skin on her forearms, she skipped across the quad. The wind whipped at her hair, making it fly in her face, and raised goose flesh on her bared skin. Pausing in front of the automatic door, waiting for the sensor to pick up her movement, she could still hear the music that pounded in the bar next to the bay. People had begun to spill outside, staggering and swaying towards the tall clock before the Academy building.

With a swish the doors opened, and Uhura jogged inside. The commanders' and professors' Halls were quiet. Empty, Uhura suspected. Almost entirely, but not quite. Turning right, she made for the stairs. He was only two floors up, there was no point in taking the elevator. What's more, jogging up the steps burned off some of her nervous energy. She was drunk (only a little) but what she had in mind still made everything in her tighten up. If she was going to do it, she'd need to build up some momentum, or the repressed straight-A student within her would walk her straight back to the bar and her friends.

_Some_ of her friends, she mentally corrected. One of them was demonstrably absent.

She stood outside the familiar door, thumb pressed hard against the chime. He took a little longer to answer than normal – or was that her nervousness? Either way, she began to worry that he _had_ gone out, had just been avoiding whatever bar she decided to be in.

The door slid open, and Spock stood before her in his black Starfleet uniform, hair perfectly flat and straight, face placid with only a flicker of surprise in his human eyes. A lazy smile spread across her face. "Can I come in?" she said, fighting hard to keep a slur out of her voice.

"I thought you would be out celebrating," he said, still standing cautiously in the doorway.

Uhura's stomach dropped. He didn't want her here. She looked down at the floor, hands twisting behind her back. "I was, but ... it was kind of dull. And I thought you might be alone and," she shrugged, risking a glance up at his stoic face, "I didn't like to think of you alone."

"An admirable sentiment, but misplaced," he said softly. "I enjoy my own company."

She nodded slowly, taking a step backwards. "I can go. It's not a problem."

Something played over his face. It might have been invisible to anyone else, but she had spent so long studying that implacable mask. His eyes glanced to the side, eyebrows drawing ever so slightly together, and the fingers of one hand twitching as though ... as though reaching for her. "You may stay," he said, standing to the side of the door. "If you wish."

Uhura smiled at him. "That would be nice. If you don't mind." She checked his face once more, for any small sign of regret or disappointment, but the features were perfectly still once more. So she passed him, entered the dark room. The only dim illumination in the room came from the window that looked down over the quad. Distantly, she heard the voices of the few revellers who had come out to see midnight struck out from the main Academy clock tower. "I'm sorry, were you sleeping?"

"Meditating," he corrected. "I do not often require sleep."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, pausing, at a loss as to whether to stay or leave. But he had closed the door now, and was stepping towards her.

They stood together at the window. He looked down at the people, gathered, swaying, shouting and singing. "I really didn't mean to disturb you," she said softly. Only one half of his inscrutable face was visible, the other half left in shadow. She studied the smooth sweep of his eyebrows, the curve of his lips, the high definition of his jaw line. Gaila called the expression stern, but Uhura now thought he looked serene. There was solace in his calm expression.

"Just because I am interrupted, it does not follow that the interruption is unpleasant."

Such small, comforting phrases were rare from Spock, and Uhura basked in them.

Through the thick plate glass, the first chime of midnight rang out across the quad. They both glanced out at the people, who hugged and shouted, "Happy New Year," a few couples kissing as others started up the chorus of _Auld Lang Syne_.

Uhura turned to face Spock, only a half a step bringing her close enough to brush her body against his. Tilting her head back, she was grateful for the three inch heels that brought her very nearly to his eye level. A small smile playing over her glossy lips, she leant in and murmured, "Happy New Year, Spock," against his lips, before joining their bodies in a kiss.

The first time they kissed, she had been taken by surprise, had barely been given a chance to enjoy the feel of his closeness, the texture of his skin, before it was taken away again. This time Uhura was determined to get all she needed before he could start thinking sense and pull away from her.

If she had expected to feel a surprised tensing of his facial muscles, she was sorely disappointed. Whatever his hidden feelings were within, he remained perfectly still, not a twitch or a blink or a sigh. All the better, Uhura thought, as she twisted her lips against his, revelling in the rough sensation of very, very slight stubble against her chin. Her hands came up to his shoulders, for purchase as much as anything. He was so solid against her, so immovable, and yet when his lips finally reacted to her he was so tender. Hot and wet and such a beautiful slide of skin against skin. Uhura could not help the murmur that escaped her throat, nor the way she tilted her head and flicked out her tongue to taste his skin.

She heard him swallow, and it was enough. It was a reaction. And it thrilled her.

Her fingers brushed the nape of his neck, silky skin melting into silky hair, and all so warm as though it were sun-kissed. She couldn't taste anything distinctive, though a breath skidded across her skin at the contact, and his mouth opened to say something. She took the opportunity and slid her tongue against his, the slick slide shooting sparks of lust through her system. "Spock," she murmured against his lips, pulling back to drop dry kisses across his face. There were so many things she wanted to tell him but, even in her somewhat drunken state, everything that ran through her head sounded clichéd and romantic.

Whatever this was, whatever she wanted from Spock, it was not convention and it was not romance.

She sighed her frustration against Spock's jaw, her nose nuzzling against his pointed ear, which may or may not have been tinged green.

His hands on her hips, his grip firm but gentle. Uhura couldn't help the sinking feeling that she was about to regret her actions. "Nyota," he whispered, and another thrill skittered along her spine at the rough texture of his voice. "This is unwise."

She smiled against his neck, her arms sliding around his shoulders to hug him. It might have been a platonic embrace, if it were not for the wet press of her lips against his neck. "I know," she whispered back, pressing the length of her body against his. "I'm sorry."

He shook his head slightly, fingers tightening around her slim hips, before pushing her gently away. "Unwise is not unwelcome." His face was entirely in shadow now, and Uhura took a step back to give him some space. "But we would be very foolish to continue any further. I suspect you know this."

However grudgingly, she nodded. "I know," she said. She took three breaths, glancing around the dark room. Try as she might, she could not think of a gracious way to excuse herself.

"Your friends will be looking for you," Spock offered softly. He still had one hand on her hip.

Silently, she thanked him. "Yes." She took his hand, squeezed it once, and turned back to the door. Silently, he followed her, pressing the door panel so that the grey portal slid open.

"Happy New Year, Nyota," he said softly, and leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to her cheek – one that anybody who happened to pass, would assume was simply a tipsy exchange of platonic affection. Although Uhura tried half-heartedly to turn her head, to capture his lips once more, he evaded her. She took two steps back, looking sadly at the Vulcan man who had been her private instructor. "I will expect you at eighteen-hundred hours on Wednesday," he said, his voice back to it's usual, even tone. "As normal."

Heart thudding in her chest, Uhura swallowed. "As normal," she repeated, before turning to walk down the hallway.


	6. January

_Disclaimer: Characters, places, etc. aren't mine, they belong to a complex network of people starting with Gene Rodenberry. The quote is from "Ironic" by Alanis Morrisette._

_Author's Note: Thanks to my beta reader Darry._

**January**

"_It's the good advice that you just didn't take_

_And who would have thought, it figures?"_

The soft gurgle and steady drip of filtering coffee was the only sound in Spock's room. Precisely as it should be. The hour between his regular classes – or study periods, depending on the day of the Terran week – and Nyota's evening visits was too short to meditate, as Spock would normally spend his evenings. Instead, Spock always contemplated the darkening sky. Whatever the time of year and the length of daylight, that was one guaranteed constant: the sky beyond Spock's east-facing window would be growing darker. Sometimes shifting from the bright daylight to the orange and green-tinged twilight of the summer, or deepening from deepest darkest blue to pure velvety black, as it did that evening. Spock liked constants. They were few enough and far between on Earth. Somehow the definite things in life reminded him of home.

"Receiving transmission," the cool, female computer voice said into the tranquillity of his room.

Spock turned his head, though there was no physical being for him to address. "Origin?" he inquired.

"Planet Vulcan, coordinates latitude 53.17 north, longitude 3.5 west," the voice informed him.

Moving with an easy fluidity, Spock stood and turned away from the window towards the flat-screen panel that dominated the opposite wall. "On screen," he said. The computer took barely a fraction of a second to comply, screen flickering then forming the image of a human woman in Vulcan dress. Spock's mother. Dark hair flecked with grey was tucked carefully beneath a headscarf; her face was more lined but no less animated than when he had last seen it. Small stabs of palest green pressed against Spock's emotional glass box. Sadness at the sight of his mother aging and at the fact that, even after a week, his Vulcan senses of observation forced him to acknowledge these subtle changes in her. "Mother," he said, betraying no hint of his quickly repressed feelings. "I had not expected any communication this evening."

Amanda smiled, used by this time to having to explain her 'illogical' actions to both of the men in her life. The expression accentuated the creases around her eyes and mouth. This made her, Spock noted, no less beautiful. "Your father is meditating. I thought it would be a good time to talk. You seemed ... I don't know ... _distracted_ last week. Is everything all right?"

Such human terms of phrase often caused Spock consternation. There were too many interpretations of the Lingua Franca phrase 'all right' – which his mother, in her own inimitable fashion, melded into the more familiar Vulcan dialect they had spoken as a family when he was a child. Since he could remember, she had always coloured Vulcan's language with her own, making her own homely, native tongue. It would be an interesting subject to raise with Nyota one night, possibly. Still, his mother's assimilation of bland and unspecific lexis made it difficult for Spock to process and accurate response. On this occasion, as on so many others, Spock evenly replied, "I am functioning adequately." Before Amanda could draw breath to argue or probe further, he quickly continued, "but this is not a convenient moment for conversation. I am expecting a student."

His mother's eyebrows rose in surprised, her eyes widening and then narrowing in suspicion. "It's very late for you to be teaching."

Spock's single blink was the only suggestion that he was, in his own way, uncomfortable. After years of studying the subtle nuances of her son's non-verbal communication, it was as good as a blush and a stutter. "The student is not mine. Not as such. Nyota Uhura is an expert in Xeno-linguistics, and I am helping her develop her communication in Vulcan and Romulan dialects."

Eyes creasing once more, Amanda's smile this time was wry, perhaps even mischievous. "That's very generous of you, Spock."

Before Spock could respond, or Amanda could wheedle any more information from her stoic son, the door chimed. "Enter," Spock said clearly, turning to look over his shoulder as Nyota stepped through the doorway. It swished shut behind her, but she stayed close to the portal, looking around the room for Spock. "There is coffee in the pot, Nyota. I am in receipt of an unexpected communication from my mother. I will terminate it momentarily."

She shifted from foot to foot. "I can give you ten minutes, if you want-"

"That won't be necessary," Amanda spoke up from the screen. Her smile was still mischievous, but quite genuine. "I'll contact you tomorrow instead, Spock."

Spock nodded once, his human eyes unable to hide the soft sunshine yellow gratitude that pressed at the sides of his emotions' glassy casing. "Thank you, Mother. We will speak tomorrow."

Ignoring her son, Amanda craned slightly to see the pretty girl lingering behind Spock, fussing in cupboards for the single coffee cup she knew Spock stashed there somewhere. "It was very nice to meet you, Miss Uhura."

Smiling over her shoulder, Nyota replied, "It was very nice to speak to you, Mrs-" she glanced at Spock, eyes wide, and gaped for barely a moment before recovering, "Ma'am."

"Good night, Mother," Spock said somewhat pointedly, pressing his thumb to the section of the screen marked 'end trans'. Amanda's smiling face blinked out of existence, fading to black, just as quickly and efficiently as it had appeared. "Mrs Grayson," he said, head turning to the side to look at Nyota over his shoulder.

"Excuse me?" she replied.

"My mother is named Amanda Grayson. According to human tradition, you may call her Mrs Grayson, if that terminology makes you more comfortable. I am sure she would have no objections to the familiarity." His gaze returned to the floor as he took a step towards Nyota. "And I must offer my apologies, Nyota. My mother has developed a strange habit of initiating contact at most inopportune moments."

"Almost as though she knows, right? Mothers do that. It's a special power they have."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "Southern-Hemisphere Romulan? A highly uncommon dialect, Nyota."

"Might as well practice it at some point, and now is as good a time as any. You don't agree?" she said a little too casually, turning around with a cup of coffee in her hand.

Spock took a breath that was slightly deeper than normal. He waited for Nyota to sit, eyebrows forming a very small frown. "I would prefer to speak in my native dialect this evening, if you have no objections. There is a pressing matter which needs to be discussed, and do not wish any miscommunication to occur between us."

Her eyes lowered to her cup. She held it, but did not drink. "You want to talk about New Years."

"Specifically, I wish to discuss your visit to me that evening and the kiss we shared."

Spock had always believed that being direct was the most logical course of action. The fact that it was directness that had left him in this difficult situation was neither here nor there. Thirty years' worth of beneficial logic could not be swept away by one display of inappropriate affection. However, when Nyota visibly blushed and swallowed, Spock very nearly felt regret at his words.

"You regret it," Nyota stated.

"My opinions on the action are irrelevant. The material fact is that a relationship between us is expressly forbidden by several Starfleet regulations. To continue on such a course would be highly illogical, given all the diligence we both have exerted to excel within the Academy."

She said nothing, but he could hear her breathing. Soft rush of air, in and out. In and out. Then a rush of in, before words spilled out, "Then you do not regret it?"

"As I said," Spock repeated, "My opinions are irrelevant."

"To you perhaps," she said softly. Spock could think of nothing further to say. He had stated the facts, and there could be no deviation from the single course of action they laid out. Eventually, Nyota spoke again. "We could carry on like we were before. Like nothing happened."

Spock tilted his head to the side, the feelings within him twining together the dark cherry-red of relief and an electric blue that Spock very seldom experienced. "That would be favourable to me."

Nyota drank a large gulp of her coffee, swallowing loudly. "I can do that," she said, her voice muffled by the cup. She lowered it, smiling up at him. The smile was tight. It showed her teeth, but did not make her eyes shine like when she was amused. "No problem."

A part of Spock wanted very much to tell Nyota that, were the circumstances different, were they both qualified officers, were he perhaps just a little more reckless, then none of it would matter. Because he would be kissing her again. However, the probability of Nyota reacting in an emotional manner to such a statement was exceptionally high, and Spock could not guarantee his ability to efficiently manage such a scenario.

Instead, he forced his lips to quirk into, what he imagined, was an accurate representation of his own form of 'forced smile'. "Then all is agreeable." Nyota only nodded. Spock sat, leaning forward as he often did these days, bringing his body that little bit closer in proximity to Nyota's. "Thank you, Nyota, for being reasonable."

A flash of something in her eyes suggested that it had been the wrong thing to say. But it was quickly gone, replaced by that same frigid smile. "I brought some cards. I wanted to teach you a game."

Eyebrow arching, Spock shifted the low table closer, placing it between them. "If it was your desire," his unintentional use of the word that had developed so many connotations between them, made him pause and swallow. He continued, rephrasing quickly, "If I had known you wished to play games while we talked, I have a very adequate chess set."

If Nyota had noticed his stumble, she made no outward sign of it. "I suspect you're a bit too good at chess," she said, her smile turning genuine. It was oddly like his mother's, wry and knowing. "I will teach you to play Snap."

"'Snap'?" Spock repeated. "An earth card game, in which the deck is split equally between opponents and cards are laid in turn until a matching pair are revealed. At this point, the first person to say, 'Snap', accumulates the cards that have been played. This is the game you wish to play?"

Nodding, Nyota replied, "Yes. You already know it?"

"I have observed the game in play." He took a breath, frowning, ducking his head slightly. He had a difficult point to raise. More to the point, he had a difficult point to _phrase_, without offending his companion. "But this is a game of pure chance. There is nothing a player can do to further their chances of winning the game, except for developing their reaction times or perception or focus. As a competition of wits, it is highly illogical."

That smile again, as small, nimble fingers shuffled the worn deck. "Precisely. I wanted to play a game with you that I thought I might have a chance of winning. If I talk to you enough to distract you."

Reaching out a hand, Spock took the deck from Nyota. His thumb ran over the smooth vellum surface. They were old, clearly, and much loved, as a human would say. "I believe humans have an aphorism: 'it is not the winning, but the taking part that counts.'"

"Mmm," Nyota responded, dark eyes dancing as she leaned back in her seat and regarded him from beneath long lashes. Purple curled about the blue and red, and Spock took a moderately deeper than normal breath. "We have another saying. 'Nobody likes a smarty pants'."

Curious. She appeared to be teasing him. Thinking back to their discussion of the so-called mating rituals of one James Kirk, Spock began to understand a little more clearly. Between two close acquaintances who knew each other well and had an understanding of mutual affection which had a possibility exceeding 40% of being purely platonic, it was acceptable – even moderately pleasurable – to exchange well-meaning taunts. Given recent events, Spock had calculated that his relationship with Nyota was only 35% platonic (if that), and as the deepening royal purple within him would testify, he did indeed find her tease enjoyable.

Slowly dealing the cards, Spock was surprised to hear his voice deepen a semitone, "I see no relevance to the formality of my attire."

"No, I'm sure you don't," Nyota replied in Lingua Franca, laughter roughening her words, brightening them.

"In Vulcan, Nyota," he cautioned, though his tone took on the teasing lightness that hers had displayed earlier.

"Stop stalling and deal the cards, Spock," she said, a lop-sided grin on her face.


	7. March

_Disclaimer: Characters, places, etc. aren't mine, they belong to a complex network of people starting with Gene Rodenberry. The quote is from "Want You Bad" by The Offspring._

_Author's Note: This one was a bitch to write, and thanks go to many for helping me through it! __For character help, thanks to Arielle. For Vulcan and plotting, thanks to David. And for beta, proofing and hand-holding, thanks to Darry. You are all super-awesome!_

**March**

"_I know your arms are open wide_

_But you're a little on the straight side – I can't lie"_

"So what did you tell him?" Gaila asked, dropping lightly into the seat beside Uhura's.

Uhura rolled her eyes and raised an eyebrow simultaneously, in a feat of stunning facial gymnastics that made Gaila all the more certain that they would be perfect for each other. "We're going to dinner tomorrow night."

"I _knew_ it!" Gaila said, with altogether too much glee. "We have to get you some new underwear. Everything you have is completely dowdy."

"It's _dinner_, Gaila. What's more, dinner at a restaurant, not a strip club."

"Who's going to a strip club?" Kirk demanded, sliding into the seat beside Gaila's. He slung an arm around the Orion woman's shoulder, not bothering to pull out a PADD or any note-taking materials. It was infuriating, the way Jim Kirk just coasted through classes then aced every test.

Gaila kissed him affectionately on the cheek. "You don't need a strip bar," she said in a teasingly stern voice. "You have me, and I'm already more than you can handle." Uhura released a groan of frustrated disapproval, ducking down to feel for the bag under her seat. She was relieved that this was her only class in which she had to tolerate the company of her social group – her roommate, Gaila's (sometimes) boyfriend, and his roommate. They had little in common, but got on well enough. _Outside_ of the classroom, anyway. Unfortunately, 'Communications Protocol' was the only class that afforded Uhura her engineering requirement, and the only course that gave her friends their mandatory Xeno-linguistics qualification.

"Uhura has a date!" Gaila announced, in a ringing tone that caused Uhura to hit her head on the desk behind her as she snapped straight.

"My God, girl, do you have no discretion?" she demanded, glaring around her at those who had overheard and were displaying more interest than was at all appropriate.

Her Orion friend grinned. "Nope. And that's exactly why you love me. I'm infuriating, and infuriating things push your buttons."

There was a brief flash in her mind of Spock's cool, calm, frustratingly blank visage. She hated it when Gaila was right. "It's not a date," she said sullenly.

"Not a date with who?" Kirk asked, looking like he was enjoying the brief tension between the two women far too much.

"With me," said a familiar sardonic drawl. Uhura raised a small, apologetic smile for McCoy, as he sidled into the row behind them. "Unless you've got any other guys you're _not_ dating?"

"No," Gaila replied before Uhura could say anything, beaming over her shoulder at McCoy. "Just you." Kirk tugged on a lock of her curly red hair, and pulled her into a conveniently distracting kiss.

Uhura turned in her seat to half-face McCoy as he pulled a PADD and stylus from his bag. "Sorry," she said.

"I'm used to it." His words were sour, but his smile was sweet enough to make Uhura wish she could bring herself to call their dinner a proper date.

"Settle down please," called Commander Linton from the dais at the front of the lecture hall. Uhura's attention snapped forwards, her posture straightening, an external indication of her internal focus. The rest of the class also shifted, each person bringing themselves to attention and preparing for an intake of knowledge. Only Kirk, barely visible in her peripheral vision, remained slouched in his seat.

Soft but distinct, a throat cleared at the front of the room and to the side. Commander Linton turned to the sound's source and, in her wake, the majority of the class also looked towards the room's main entrance. Spock stood there, as impeccably neat as ever, posture straight as an arrow with his hands behind his back clasping a data PADD. Uhura was ashamed and slightly cross at herself for the extra thump her heart made on seeing him. It was, she told herself firmly, out of surprise. This was, after all, essentially a linguistics seminar, and even at their evening meetings Spock had rarely shown any interest in the functions and formations of Xeno-linguistics. Spock held up the data PADD to show his colleague, and Commander Linton nodded. "Go ahead, Mr Spock."

Paying no attention to the rows of cadets who watched him with interest, Spock walked to the main console and began to dismantle the access panel.

"Technical difficulties unfortunately mean that there will be no projected notes today, so you'll all need to listen closely because I don't intend to repeat myself."

Were Uhura inclined to snort, she might well have done so. Communication Protocols were, in a word, easy. It was a system based around following an instruction manual, and required absolutely no cognitive input. Uhura had read and memorised said handbook a month ago. She very much doubted the chances of Commander Linton saying anything that would send her scrabbling for her stylus.

As the lecture began and her fellow cadets took notes on material Uhura had committed to memory weeks ago, she found her attention wandering.

Spock was kneeling on the floor, one arm buried elbow-deep inside the computer console. He gazed unseeing into the middle distance, a small frown of concentration creasing his brow. With what was almost a gesture of irritation, Spock jerked out his hand, rolled up his sleeve (revealing a glorious expanse of olive-hued skin) and lay on his back for better vantage and access. She should have found his brief non-verbal expression of emotion jarring, Uhura supposed. But – with Spock laid out on the floor, legs slightly bent and parted, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his attention utterly absorbed in the moment – Uhura found herself strangely unable to pass judgement on his reactions.

"Jeepers, girl," Gaila whispered, her voice thick. She fanned herself with one hand as though flustered; as though she had been reading Uhura's mind and liked what she saw. "You feeling OK?" Before Uhura even had a chance to look away guiltily, Gaila had followed her line of sight. She sighed dramatically. "Oh brother!"

"What?" Uhura whispered back, voice slightly strained as she flicked through files on her PADD, trying desperately to look engrossed in something other than Commander Spock. "I'm fine."

"Uh-huh," Gaila responded, lips curling into the smile Uhura had come to know as predatory. The Orion leaned in closer, until curly red hair brushed Uhura's cheek. "Look, could you maybe just stare at the wall or something for the next hour? Because your pheromones are _distracting_ me."

"You must be confusing me with Jim," Uhura said too lightly, still refusing to look either at Gaila or Spock.

Gaila chuckled softly. "No way. Girls smell different to boys."

Frowning, Uhura tried very hard not to think of the connotations of that sentence. And spent the rest of the class determinedly _not looking_ at Spock.

*

Dinner at the local Italian restaurant had been lovely. Her not-a-date had been cordial and amusing. Even – though she would never admit this within the hearing of her roommate – attractive. Their hands brushed when they both reached for more bread, and the touch was exciting without being awkward. When McCoy stared at her, as she discovered he quite often did, his gaze was warm and affectionate. There was no hardness in the eyes that were so often mocking. They walked back to the Academy together and, when the sidewalk narrowed so there was only really space for single file, McCoy slowed and allowed Uhura to walk ahead, encouraging her by resting a gentle hand on the small of her back. The small but meaningful contact made her try very hard not to think of firm hands resting on her hips.

When he walked her to her door, as any good gentleman would, the decision came. Well, several decisions. The first one was easy. There would be no goodnight kiss. This was not a date. It wasn't.

However, McCoy had given her a really nice time and she couldn't in all conscience send him back to his and Kirk's room, where _his_ room mate would no doubt be having noisy, unrepentant sex with _her_ room mate. "It's not that late," Uhura said casually, hoping it didn't sound like more. "Would you like to come in for some coffee or a beer or something?"

"Beer's always good," Mc Coy replied, grinning from ear to ear.

The door swished open and Uhura called for lights. The fluorescent strips were too bright after their walk in the velvet night, and Uhura squinted as she bent over the fridge. "Classic Bud OK?" she asked, pulling out two of the chilled bottles and unscrewing the caps.

McCoy took one from her and clinked the bottle necks together. "Cheers!" Uhura smiled, and watched him take a good swallow. She herself only sipped.

They stood together for a moment, McCoy looking around the room with interest, Uhura watching him. It had seemed a good idea to invite him in, but now she worried she had encouraged him to be hopeful of more. "Well, you're just a little _too_ tidy, aren't you?" he said eventually. Then ducked his head in embarrassment. It was a surprisingly endearing gesture. "But then a Cardasian dung beetle's tidy compared to Jim."

"Thank you – I think," she smiled, walking across the room to sit on Gaila's unmade bed. "Sit down."

She could almost see him thinking about sitting next to her, and was grateful when he settled on the bed opposite. He drank again, eyes darting about the room and taking in every detail. "So," he said. "Communications Protocol."

Uhura rolled her eyes. "This can't be that awkward. You can't be talking about the most boring class either of us has ever taken."

He grinned his relief. "What, you're not thrilled by the correct way to initiate contact with Ferengi trade vessels that have tried to steal your transporter pads?" He shook his head, eyes carefully trained on her face, "And I thought I knew you."

"I speak twenty basic non-human languages, and I still only have so many ways to say, 'This is the iEnterprise/i, please identify yourself.'"

He raised an eyebrow. "The _Enterprise_, is it? A woman of ambition." Uhura would have killed to know what was going on in his head – if it weren't so blatantly expressed in his face.

One eyebrow, the right one, still ever-so-slightly quirked. Blue eyes looked straight at her, though they flicked from her eyes to the rest of her body occasionally. His lips made an odd smile of admiration and approval. Added to this, the rest of his body language leaned openly towards her. He was, to put it bluntly, interested. One didn't have to be conversant in the subtleties of non-verbal communication (which Uhura, incidentally, was) to know this.

And yet it was this obviousness that somehow turned her off. As much as she tried not to think about it, she couldn't help comparing him to Spock. There was something attractive in not having his thoughts and feelings dealt to her on a plate. Like with so many things in Uhura's life, she really quite enjoyed having to work hard to figure him out. And, as a result, it made the small rewards such as interpreting a facial tick or moving him to break some of his emotional control, all the more satisfying. In McCoy there was an attractive, funny, interesting man. But there was no challenge.

"Receiving transmission," the computer's voice said.

Uhura frowned. "Oh. On screen." She shifted over to her own bed, sitting next to McCoy for a better view of the screen. Only a moment passed, before it flicked to life. A head-and-shoulders shot of Spock appeared, his normal, straight-backed posture rigidly in place. But there was something off about his face, something not quite right.

"Good evening, Nyota. I am sorry to contact you at such a late hour." To his credit, he did not stumble on seeing McCoy sat beside her, a half-empty beer bottle in hand, looking entirely relaxed and at home. He did, however, pointedly raise an eyebrow.

"That's alright, Commander. Doctor McCoy and I were just going over some class notes. Is everything alright?"

Spock shifted from one foot to the other. He looked uncomfortable, and the fact that he looked _anything_ made Uhura uncomfortable. "I am afraid not. I will have to cancel our session tomorrow."

"What's wrong?" she asked immediately, involuntarily shifting closer to the screen and wishing for all the world that McCoy was not sat next to her.

"I am experiencing odd symptoms that lead me to believe I am unwell. It is nothing alarming, and I will contact a physician in the morning. But I would not wish to pass an illness on to you that may present itself more severely in a purely human physiognomy than one that is half Vulcan."

"Why not contact a physician now?" McCoy spoke up, making Uhura frown. Did none of her friends have any respect for her privacy?

"If you are insinuating yourself, Doctor, I have observed that you have been imbibing alcohol. A sober medical practitioner would be preferable."

Uhura felt him shift on the bed, moving slightly closer and leaning towards her. She longed for a way to make him back off without being too obvious, but settled for tensing, pleading with her eyes for Spock to understand that, despite appearances, _this was not a date_. "I wasn't offering right now, Commander. I'm a little busy." She could hear the grin in his voice, and it made her cringe. "But I can swing by in the morning and give you the once over. Never had a chance to give a Vulcan the once-over before."

"That is hardly reassuring," Spock said. That was definitely a sour tone that, if nothing else, confirmed that Spock must really not be himself. Uhura's supposition was confirmed when Spock grudgingly added, "However, your reputation precedes you and I fear you are not in the minority at having little experience with non-human life forms. I will be available from oh-eight-hundred hours."

"Oh-eight-hundred it is," McCoy confirmed.

"My apologies for cancelling," Spock added to Uhura.

"Just rest up and feel better, OK?"

Spock grimaced – actually grimaced – and nodded, before the image of his upper body leaned forwards and the screen went dark.

"I didn't know you had classes with Commander Spock," McCoy said, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

She shrugged lightly, taking another, deeper drink of the bitter beer before leaning across McCoy to place the bottle on her bedside table. "We speak in Vulcan together. He's a lot better than a computer."

McCoy suddenly felt very close as one side of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. "Is he, now? From what I hear, a Vulcan and a computer are a pretty close match."

Rolling her eyes, she smacked him lightly on the shoulder. She would have told him not to be a jerk, but there was something odd in McCoy's eyes. Had he been any other guy, invited back to a girl's room and handed a beer, she supposed this would be a good opportunity for him to kiss her.

But McCoy didn't. He just stared, a bemused smile playing over his lips. "Gee, look at the time. I should go," he said eventually, downing the last of his beer and placing the bottle beside hers on the bedside table.

"Oh," Uhura replied, blinking as he stood. "Well, I had a really great night."

He nodded, glancing over his shoulder at her. "Glad to hear. I aim to show a lady a good time. We could do it again, if you like. Never hurts my ego to wander around with a pretty lady on my arm."

"How about Thursday?" she asked.

"Thursday it is, then." His eyes flicked to the blank transmissions screen. "But I expect I'll be seeing you before then." Uhura frowned slightly, a little confused. All night she had been getting the right signals from McCoy. There had been small touches, piercing looks – he had come back to her room, for heaven's sakes. It made no sense. Not that she especially wanted him to make a pass at her, but ... somehow it was still something of a let down. "G'night, Uhura," he said, before disappearing through the doorway.

"Night night, McCoy."

*

Never a patient person, Uhura found herself tapping her foot outside Spock's door at oh-eight-thirty. She knew that Spock had warned her to stay away, that he might be contagious, but there was nothing to stop her checking in with McCoy to see how her friend was doing. In one hand she held a data PADD. She didn't like coming to see him when he was sick without bringing something. Food was out of the question – for all she knew, he might have spent half the night with his head in a bucket, besides the fact that Vulcans had some very odd dietary requirements. He hadn't expanded on his symptoms enough for her to bring anything that might cause him physical relief. And so it remained for her to remember the last time she was sick.

It had been a week stuck on the sofa, her foot in a cast, unable to walk thanks to a fractured ankle. And boy, had that sucked. She remembered being bored out of her mind, and the ennui being far worse than the pain. Too doped up to concentrate on reading, audio-books had been a life saver. She could close her eyes and switch off, while still having something for her frustrated mind to chew on.

While she had spent a lot of time talking to Spock, she had little idea how his tastes in literature ran. So, she had put together a little bit of everything before going to bed the night before: some classics, a smidgen of romance – she didn't want him getting the wrong idea, but sometimes ieveryone/i loved a sappy story. Also a bit of crime, because something told Uhura that Spock would have an affinity for Arthur Conan Doyle. It was all human. Uhura's specialisation being the spoken word, she wasn't called on to carry out much Vulcan translation. Besides which, whatever the Vulcan version of Whinnie the Pooh was, she was pretty sure Spock would already have it.

With a swish and click, the door opened and Uhura set upon McCoy. "Is he ok?" she asked.

"You don't waste time, do you?" McCoy asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I was just passing," Uhura lied smoothly, subtly hiding the PADD behind her back.

"Hmmm," McCoy murmured, his usual sour drawl firmly back in place. "Well, unfortunately, I do have doctor-patient confidentiality to consider. If you want to know what's up, you'll need to ask him." He jerked a thumb at the grey door that had closed smoothly behind him.

Uhura took a step, then hesitated. "_Is_ it contagious?"

McCoy smirked, and was unable to keep the amusement out of his voice as he replied, "Depends. Have you had chicken pox?"

*

The room was as dark as normal. However, normally Uhura's visits were during the evening, and on this occasion the lack of light was due to the polarised windows dampening the bright rays of the sun. Scheduling conflicts and exam upheaval had caused them to delay their scheduled Wednesday night meeting to a Saturday, when they could both relax happy in the knowledge that any marking or studying that had to be completed would easily wait for an hour or so.

"Spock?" she said, her eyes taking their time to adjust. Her voice sounded loud in the apparently empty room, and she swallowed nervously.

"Yes, Nyota," he replied. She followed the sound of him, locating a dark figure huddled on the couch which Spock never normally used, preferring the smaller, less intimate padded stools they used during their discussions. Taking a few steps closer, Uhura blinked rapidly to adjust her eyes. From what she could see, Spock's body language was as close as she had ever seen to human. Though his posture was still rigid, it was in a way that seemed tense rather than disciplined. His arms wrapped across his chest, hands balled into tight fists. Over his uniform, he wore an oddly-styled grey knitted sweatshirt that Uhura had never seen before. He glanced up at her, his eyes too hidden in shadow to read his expression accurately. "I informed you that it would be unwise to visit me."

"I had it when I was a kid. You don't need to worry."

He nodded, apparently unsurprised that she had been informed as to the nature of his illness. "Varicella zoster. I understand it is commonly experienced by humans during childhood. Unfortunately, I grew up on Vulcan, and only developed the Vulcan catalogue of childhood diseases." His hand drifted to his face, absently rubbing at his chin where, she noticed, a small green pimple was developing. "I am fortunate. Doctor McCoy believes that my nervous and immune systems – which are, for the most part, of Vulcan physiology – will reduce the severity the condition often causes in adulthood."

"You must not scratch," she directed as gently as she could, in Vulcan. He quickly brought his hand back down, shuddering as he wrapped his arms around himself once more. "Are you cold?"

"My body is trying to fight the infection." The statements of fact seemed to help keep his voice steady, as though Spock found the strict definitions of technical terms reassuring. "It is chemically deceiving my nervous system, informing my mind that the environment is cold, so that I will seek means of heating myself, thereby raising my body temperature and illuminating the conditions in which viral bodies thrive."

She nodded slowly. "You have a fever."

"In layman's terms, yes."

She crouched down, bringing her face on a level with his. "I didn't know what you had, so I brought you some audio books. They cheer me up when I'm sick."

"That was highly empathetic of you," he responded, his eyes closed. She wondered if it was concentration at trying not to scratch, or simply because the infection left him tired. "I am sorry we cannot hold our usual discussion."

She shrugged, smiling. "I'm sorry I can't stay. But I'm just going to be studying in my room. If there's anything you need, just call me, OK?"

"The doctor," Spock said, opening his eyes to look at you. Though nothing had changed in his face – no muscles twitches, no creases to the skin – his eyes were undeniably sad. "He has prescribed me with antihistamines which, I believe, are also soporific."

Then he _was_ tired. Uhura nodded slowly and stood upright. "Then I'll leave you to sleep."

She could not help reaching out to him, this poor man suffering an alien illness, so far away from his home and family. She lay her hand on his forehead, half-wincing at the violent heat of his skin. Fingertips ran down over his cheek, but he pulled away from the contact. Eyes flicked up to hers, eyebrows pulled together in a small frown. "Your fingers are cold," he growled, voice far rougher than normal.

Uhura nodded, the hand dropping away. "I'm sorry," she said, and sighed. "I'll check in on you later."

Spock made no response, so Uhura turned to leave. "Thank you," he said softly before she reached the door.

She turned and regarded him over her shoulder. One of his hands was running over the data PADD, fingers pressing at its surface. Yet, somehow, she didn't think he was thanking her for the gift. "You're welcome. Feel better."


	8. May

_Disclaimer: Characters, places, etc. aren't mine, they belong to a complex network of people starting with Gene Rodenberry. The quote is from "Obviously" by McFly._

_Author's Note: Thanks to Darry, Dave and MuseDePandora for the beta reads._

**May**

"_Recently I've been hopelessly reaching_

_Out for this girl who's out of this world"_

"Dammit, why can't they fly on a flat bit of air?"

"In all seriousness, Bones, how are you going to cope with working on a star ship?"

"Ask me a few more questions. Every time I open my mouth brings me that much closer to vomiting my breakfast into your lap."

"Remind me what you had for breakfast again?"

"Kirk, will you leave him alone?"

The final voice motivated Spock to open his eyes. Inasmuch as Spock ever liked or disliked anything, what he saw definitely fell into the latter category. She was extending her vowels, pressing air through her nasal cavity to give the words a strained, irritated tone that did not suit her. Furthermore, her hand was tightly clasped around Cadet McCoy's. He looked too pale – grey, really – to properly notice the affection. But it reminded Spock very clearly that she had not touched him since his blessedly brief illness; at which point, he had pulled away and requested she desist. The way her thumb slid firmly, reassuringly over the back of McCoy's hand was a little too intimate. Especially as he had observed Nyota very rarely initiated physical contact within her social group.

The shuttle shuddered once more on its steep descent, as they broke through the low cloud cover, and McCoy shuddered with it. This caused a surge of deepest scarlet satisfaction shoot through his emotional centre as the doctor swallowed visibly. "Do you require medical assistance, Cadet McCoy?" Spock asked, his head tilted slightly in the doctor's direction.

"I'm fine," McCoy ground out.

The scarlet remained as the shuttle finished its descent, thrusters slowing the craft to a gentle halt before touching down to the Earth's surface. He heard McCoy expel a heavy breath, as though he had been holding it in ever since they left San Francisco. Nyota did not let go of his hand.

"OK, Cadets." Captain Pike stood from his seat beside the helm and addressed the small 'Away Team'. "You know the drill, or you should by now. Take your backpacks when you disembark, appoint a navigator and get hiking. Commander Spock, Commander Y-Brok and I will hike with you to the appointed safe ground, but we won't be assisting you in any way. Once at the safe ground, you will set up camp for the night. In the morning, your mission is to initiate first contact with the people of the planet and bargain for the medical supplies required for the rest of your crew, who are suffering an epidemic." He looked around the students, staring hard at each one in turn. When his eyes finally landed on Spock, his eyebrows flashed in an unconscious gesture Spock had learned indicated friendship. Then he looked back at the students, announcing, "You're being graded as of this moment. Good luck."

Kirk grinned, one corner of his mouth rising, as he looked around at his colleagues. "Let's go, team Kirk."

As the shuttle door opened and the four students stooped to exit the craft, Spock distinctly heard Uhura mutter, "I am _not_ being a part of any group named 'team Kirk'."

"It's easier just to smile and nod, you know," McCoy informed her, taking in a deep breath of the chill, damp air that was beginning to permeate the shuttle.

Spock repressed a shiver. He had been assured that the climate would not cause him undue discomfort – it had, in fact, been a stipulation of his agreement to be a part of this simulation. He had been told that the small island known colloquially as 'Britain' had been experiencing an unusually humid Spring, so much so that Spock would surely not suffer undue discomfort. He began to see that humans had little idea of what a Vulcan required in terms of infra-red radiation and atmospheric humidity. In brief, Spock could tell before even departing the shuttle that this Britain was no Vulcan desert.

"After you, Commander Spock," Pike said, smiling. Spock remembered Nyota's differentiating between laughing 'with' and 'at' a person. From the slight pursing of Captain Pike's lips and gleam in his eye, Spock suspected that he was being laughed at.

"Thank you," he replied coolly, and ducked his head to pass through the low shuttle exit. He took a single breath, swallowed, and knew that the next two days would be far from congenial. Looking skywards, he noted the sun was at least shining, and that the clouds through which they had travelled were intermittent and unlikely to produce precipitation. The humid storms of San Francisco were bad enough. The cold damp that he surmised would accompany rainfall this far north might produce a serious adverse effect on his health. And Spock had no desire to request medical assistance from Cadet McCoy again.

"OK, Gaila," Kirk said, tossing a navigational device to the Orion cadet. "Knock yourself out."

She ignored his taunting phraseology and opened the portable nav system, quickly aligning herself to North. "Three miles that way," she said, pointing without looking up.

The whole party followed the direction her hand indicated; then tilted their heads upward, until their lines of sight met with the mountain's summit.

"You sure?" McCoy asked, clearly recovered.

Gaila looked up, seeing the same rocky outcrop that had so disheartened her colleagues. "Aw, shit," she muttered.

Looking to his left, Spock noticed Commander Y-Brok grinning. She had designed the simulation and chosen this deeply objectionable island and the overly-exerting hike that they would _all_ have to complete. It was illogical to dislike the Commander. She was, after all, merely following orders in her design of a trying field examination. Yet Spock found that he could not help himself.

It was Nyota who spoke first, shrugging her shoulders and kneeling to remove her unsuitable footwear in favour of heavier hiking boots. "Well, we'd better get started. Day's already half-gone, and we're going to need the light."

*

Spock was grateful that Nyota was a woman of stamina. Requesting that Cadet Gaila direct her as to the best route of ascent, she easily out-paced the rest of the group, climbing with barely any labour to her respiration. This was fortunate for Spock, as it meant he, too, could climb ahead of the group – a situation that afforded him both the chance to travel at a comfortable rate, and the opportunity to enjoy Nyota's company out of their fellows' hearing.

"You move proficiently," Spock noted in Vulcan, his voice low despite the rest of the group's position some ten metres behind them.

He could hear the smile in Nyota's voice as she replied, "Are you speaking as a friend or an examiner?"

"If your ability to walk on an incline is part of the simulation's marking criteria, it is certainly not under my control." He drew level with her, so he could see her face if he so chose. "For now, I speak as a companion."

Though her lips curved upward, her eyebrows had drawn together slightly and her eyes were cast downwards. "Then thank you. I used to run cross-country when I was a teenager. Well, I still run, but it's more to keep fit now. And it gives me a chance to see San Francisco, beyond campus."

Spock nodded slowly, eyes on the uneven, barely defined track that Cadet Gaila had suggested as the safest route. He himself had no desire to explore beyond the bounds of the Academy. He had briefly ventured north during the summer leave, to see the place of his mother's birth; but the place held no resonance for him. "You run alone?" he asked.

"I have to. No one else can keep up." She grinned sidelong at him, then glanced over her shoulder as though to check that they were not being overheard. She did not, he supposed, wish the other commanding officers to think she was attempting to positively affect her grading through means of charm.

"Not even Cadet McCoy?" Spock asked before he could properly control the tone of his voice. He emphasised the name too much, gave it a sub-textual meaning that, surely, he had not intended.

Nyota looked up at him quickly, and lost her footing for a moment, boot skidding on the rough screed. Lightning reflexes allowed him to shoot out a hand before she could fall, catching her firmly around the forearm.

"You OK?" McCoy called from behind them, lengthening his stride to catch up with the pair.

"I'm fine," she laughed, gently removing her arm from Spock's grasp. Spock raised an eyebrow, staring hard at Nyota. The colour rose in her cheeks, though whether from the surprise of her slip, or from the attention of himself and Cadet McCoy, Spock could not tell.

"Take it easy, OK?" McCoy said as he drew level with them. His hand rested on her arm, where Spock had caught her from falling and, in a similar gesture, Nyota gently pulled away from the contact.

"I'm fine," she said in Lingua Franca, her increased emphasis on the second word speaking of hurt pride. "Chill out, guys."

"Only another half a mile, anyway," Cadet Gaila informed them. "Scans from 'the ship' suggest that the area we're looking for should be a flat plane around thirty metres in diameter. Give a call down when you get there."

Nyota had already started back up the mountain, slender legs taking long strides to out-strip the two men. They looked at each other briefly, before following in silence.

*

On reflection, there were benefits to being a commanding officer rather than a cadet. One of them was sitting on a tree stump watching as four students erected shelters on his behalf. He had been tempted on more than one occasion, to make some suggestions. To point out that the structure could be greatly improved if Cadet Kirk would tie his guide line at a slightly shallower angle, or if Cadet Gaila would extend the aluminium poles point-three metres further to allow the taller members of their party – specifically himself – to stand up straight in the shelter. However, the purpose of the simulation was to allow the cadets free rein to make mistakes. Therefore, he reserved his opinions for the debriefing the following evening. Light was already scarce when the seven of them had reached the appointed space. They had erected torches, and carried out the operation of making a shelter by lamplight. Captain Pike sat beside him, while Commander Y-Brok had found a rock facing the last of the setting sun. They did not speak to each other. Captain Pike avidly watched the group, apparently assessing their team dynamics and operational efficiency. Y-Brok was meditating, as her faith dictated, and Spock was content to keep his own counsel.

The fact that Spock was not yet called upon to assess the cadets was fortunate. Technically speaking, he was not needed in any capacity. This was not a simulation designed to test the cadets on their analysis of new worlds or their scientific evaluations. In fact, this would be the first time he graded a cadet in a field which was entirely new to him. Though, as Captain Pike had pointed out, he was uniquely suited to the situation.

Watching Nyota, he hoped that she was adequately prepared for the day to come. She bent at the waist to pull out the sleeping bags. The ridiculously short skirt – which was, illogically, part of the Starfleet uniform, despite the garment's extreme lack of practicality – rose a clear inch higher than was decent. He had observed, entirely unwillingly, that most women wore undergarments of a matching fabric to either conceal or lessen the effect of such an inevitable occurrence. Said garment, however, did not cover the clear, smooth sweep of bare thigh leading up to her hip.

"Your castle is ready, Commanders!" Kirk announced, his arms spread wide in a welcoming gesture. He was breaking the rules of the simulation by directly addressing his assessors. It was, however, a welcome distraction from Spock's momentary ... distraction. Turning to the rest of his team, Kirk said, "Right, it's been a long day, and we have to be up early. We might as well hit the sack."

"Agreed," McCoy groaned, slumping onto a sleeping bag and pulling a suspicious glass bottle from his back pack.

Spock looked to Captain Pike for confirmation before standing and walking to the make-shift shelter to claim a sleeping bag. Nyota, he noticed a split-second too late, had placed her belongings on the bag beside his. She crouched down to remove her shoes and, raising her head, met Spock's gaze. Her lips quirked in a small smile. Spock looked away.

It took an hour for the cadets and commanders to settle for the night. While Cadets Kirk and McCoy amused themselves whispering on the far side of their small encampment, casually ignoring the 'Captain's' own instructions, Nyota and Cadet Gaila had unfurled their sleeping bags with little discussion, and both were producing the soft, rhythmic respiration of sleep. Captain Pike was snoring gently to his left.

Before long, he was the only member of their party still awake, laid out stiff on his back staring at the blank canopy above. For almost precisely ninety minutes, Nyota's sleep had been deep, her body lying entirely still and breathing slowly. After those ninety minutes, her breathing became shallower and, glancing to the side, he noticed her hand twitch on the grass beside her head. She was dreaming.

Despite his half-human biology, Spock had never dreamed. He supposed it was the disciplines placed on his mind in the formative stages of his development, but he simply never experienced the phenomena. Shifting onto his side, he watched her. His eyes had long since grown accustomed to the lack of light, and the moon was sufficient to illuminate her face as lips quirked and her eyes subtly shifted beneath their lids. She was smiling. Her dream must have been a pleasant one. A deep in-take of breath, expelled as a soft hum; her fingers stretched out towards him.

"Spock?" she whispered.

His whole body tightened. She was not, in fact, asleep, knew he was observing, and was rightfully appalled.

Except that she was breathing steadily, and her eyes remained closed. Spock only relaxed after five more even breaths, followed by another of those deep inhalations and humming sighs.

Apparently, Nyota Uhura talked in her sleep. Fascinating. He had read, in passing, of this condition. There were cases in which an unconscious response to queries could be developed.

After barely three seconds' consideration, Spock said, as softly as he could, "Yes, Nyota?"

Smile widening, her hand twitched closer. "Spock," she murmured again, a little louder.

Spock's eyes ran over her face, etching every small detail of her completely open demeanour onto his memory. "What do you require?" he asked, surprised at the tone of his own voice. A human might call it tender, though Spock knew it was caused by nothing more than a concern of being overheard.

Nyota's voice took on a deeper timbre. "Where are you?" she said, possibly a little too loudly. She had slipped into her native Swahili, as he understood many humans did when governed purely by the subconscious. It was a beautiful language, especially when formed by her delicate lips. Spock had started learning the language almost as soon as their lessons began. It was polite, if not logical, to know Nyota's language at least partly as well as she knew his.

An eyebrow lifting, Spock quickly glanced at the other members of the group. All appeared to be fast asleep. Reaching out one hand, he gently covered the fingers that reached for him. Her skin was soft and cold. He ran his thumb along the back of her hand, the contact producing a minimal telepathic reaction. He felt – distantly, hazily – her mind reaching out to him, as her hand had done. It was all purple swirls and dancing blue lights that curled lazily through the delicious thick black of sleep. The thick darkness of her sleep world was seductive, warm comforting. He could feel her within it, and she drew him closer, beckoned him to join her. "I'm here," he told her softly, before the black covered him and he, too, succumbed.


	9. May Continued

_Disclaimer: Characters, places, etc. aren't mine, they belong to a complex network of people starting with Gene Rodenberry. The quote is from "Right Here Waiting" by Staind._

_Author's Note: Thanks to Darry, Dave and Kimberley for beta reads, suggestions and general hand-holding._

**May (Continued)**

"_If you chose to walk away I'd still be right here waiting_

_Searching for the things to say to keep you right here waiting"_

That was a good sleep, Uhura reflected as she stretched her arms above her head, wriggling slightly on the cold ground. It had been some years since she'd slept in a glorified tent, and she remembered that it never normally felt that good. Must have been some hike.

Some dream. The thought made her smile, as she was safe to do in the solitude of her sleeping bag, snuggled far enough down that her head was well covered. Enclosed, alone, she remembered the too-real feel of him. Not just his body, but his mind, in that odd way that only dreams could allow. Fingertips so solid and hot had run over the back of her hand. And his voice. He'd spoken in Vulcan. Usually all of her dream-dialogue was in Swahili. But he'd spoken in Vulcan. Strange. Not unpleasantly so, but still odd.

"Someone give Uhura a kick," she heard Gaila say loudly.

"Let her sleep," McCoy replied. He was sweet, but Uhura knew better than to think such a subtle suggestion would sidetrack her Orion friend.

Sitting up, Uhura ran a hand through her hair. She'd carefully pulled it into a long braid, in the hopes that it wouldn't be too completely dishevelled over night. Emergency provisions specifically excluded cosmetics, and hairbrushes, apparently, were classed by Starfleet as a cosmetic. "I'm awake, please don't _actually_ kick me."

"'Morning," McCoy muttered, attention largely focussed on opening his protein pack.

Kirk was grinning. This was never a pretty sight first thing in the morning. Except that Gaila – not to mention the rest of the team – were already awake, so it couldn't be first thing. "God, did I sleep in?"

"We shook you, but you were out cold," Kirk said. "You're a heavy sleeper."

"She really isn't," Gaila said, scowling. She was doubtless reminiscing on the many occasions when Uhura had woken at an inconvenient moment. "Cold, damp mountainsides just ... I don't know ... shit, I can't be witty without coffee."

Still smiling, cocky blue eyes shining, Kirk offered her his protein bars. "There's yummy nutritious processed food substances. Mmmm." He forced lip-smacks, chuckling at her disgusted gagging noise. "OK, Lieutenant," he said, peering down at Uhura from his vantage point of a tree stump. "Here's the situation. We've lost our commanders."

"Lost them?" For the first time, she looked at the spot to her side. Where Spock had been lying what felt like only a few moments ago, there was nothing but grass and rock. Even the sleeping bag had vanished.

"They weren't here when I woke up," McCoy chipped in around a mouthful of protein. "Which was an hour ago," he added with his normal sourness.

Sliding her legs out of the sleeping bag, Uhura began to pull on her boots. "OK, so they're observing us from a distance. Makes sense, they don't want to ... infringe, or whatever. So we carry on the mission as planned."

"Which is to make First Contact," Gaila said, flicking idly through the settings on her Tricorder. "With what? A sheep?" As if on cue, the device beeped. Gaila frowned, thumbs working swiftly over the controls. "Captain, detecting two life forms moving in our direction. Both humanoid, both ... unknown species."

"Bingo!" Kirk said, hopping to his feet. "Where are they coming from?"

"How can there be new life in _Wales_?" McCoy griped, tossing what was left of his protein bar into his backpack. "Nothing new's come out of this backwater in a century."

"Bones, chill. They rigged the Tricorder or something. Whatever, who cares! We're on a mission and we have to be prepared." Turning back to Gaila he asked, "What's their approach?"

"From the summit," she replied, turning from her instrument towards the mist-shrouded peak. She shielded her eyes with her hands. "I don't see anything, but they're up there. And moving towards us. I estimate they arrive at camp in approximately thirty minutes."

"Thanks, Gaila, keep an eye on them for me. The rest of us can get the camp cleared for when they show. We don't want them thinking we're making their planet untidy."

Shaking her head, Uhura nevertheless obeyed the command, rolling up her sleeping bag and compressing it into her backpack. They worked together over the next ten minutes, to take down the shelter canopy and remove any traces of their presence.

"_Hail_!" came a sudden call from above them.

Uhura tilted her head to one side. That was one weird language, but needed more before she could identify it.

"_Strangers below, stay where you are_!" the voice called again.

Uhura knew that language, she knew she knew it, but what the _hell_ was it? The whole party was staring upwards now, scouring the mountainside for the two figures they knew were there somewhere. "Uhura, what's he speaking?"

"_Stay there_!" he called again.

A lightbulb flicked on inside her head, and everything suddenly fell into place. With a snort, she muttered, "'Oh, not that dialect tonight, I'm not in the mood for Southern Romulan'. Dammit, Spock!" She took a breath, and looked over at her perplexed colleagues. "It's an archaic Romulan dialect. We don't even know if they use it verbally any more."

"You speak it?" Kirk asked.

It was dawning on Uhura that this was, specifically, _her_ exam and there would be no coasting through this on Communications protocol. "The long answer is 'maybe'. The root language is similar to Vulcan and standard Romulan, but some of the mutations are just bizarre. Plus no one's spoken it fluently in centuries – as far as we know." She shrugged, taking a deep breath. "The short answer is, 'I guess we'll find out'."

"Up there!" Gaila was pointing to a hidden track that skirted the steep incline to the peak. Two figures, dressed in black and hooded.

"OK, Team Kirk. Let's go get our med supplies."

Shaking her head at 'Team Kirk', Uhura took up the rear as they started back up the mountain. She bowed her head, going over verb conjugations in her head and _desperately_ wishing Spock had let her practice beforehand. Up close, the aliens were more obviously two commanders, namely Spock and Y-Brok. The thought of the uptight Vulcan playing dress-up might have been funny, were Uhura's stomach not turning at the thought of going into a test without being completely prepared.

"_Greetings, Strangers_," Spock said smoothly once they were close enough to speak without shouting.

"What did he say?" Kirk whispered to Uhura.

"He offered us a greeting." Turning to Spock, she replied in the chosen dialect, "_Greetings_."

"_Identify_," Spock said, using the aggressive, formal tense.

"_I am Lieutenant Uhura of the Starship Enterprise_," she said, hoping to God those words would one day be true and the results of this simulation wouldn't land her on a starbase in the middle of no where for the rest of her career.

"_Greetings, Uhura. I am Spock_."

"_My colleagues and I are peaceful_." She swallowed. Simple sentences were fine. Clauses might get her shot in the foot. "_We are looking for supplies. They grow on your planet. Will you help us?_"

"_You claim to be peaceful, yet you carry weaponry. Please explain._"

He spoke quickly, and had either rehearsed his speech or knew the language a lot better than Uhura would have guessed. It took her a moment to process the tenses before Uhura looked down to the phaser attached to her belt. "What's he saying, Uhura?" Kirk asked.

"He's asking why we carry phasers if we're peaceful."

"Oh, great," McCoy muttered.

"You're not helping," Gaila hissed.

"Look, shut up a second, OK, and let me think." Closing her eyes for a moment, visualising tense forms, she stammered an appropriate response. "_Some species we meet are not peaceful. Your robes are religious_?" she asked, taking a chance.

Spock paused a moment before answering. "_They are_."

"_We will remove our weapons as a sign of_-" She took a deep breath, carefully forming her mouth around the awkward noun. "_Trust_."

Spock nodded his head solemnly. "_That is agreeable_."

"What'd he say?" Kirk asked again.

"Take off your phasers," Uhura said, quickly removing her own. The others frowned, but with a little further encouragement followed suit.

Gathering the four weapons and holding them awkwardly, Uhura offered them to Commander Y-Brok. She took them, but said nothing. "_Your friend is very quiet_," Uhura said, unable to help the wry twist of her lips.

"_A vow of silence_," Spock replied smoothly. "_What do you seek_?"

"_A plant named lavandula_," she replied, not even attempting to guess at the herb's name in this obscure Romulan dialect.

Spock shook his head solemnly. "_I know of no plant by that name_."

Uhura sighed, turning to McCoy. "He doesn't know the name. Can you get a picture of it or something?"

"I can describe it," he offered, looking pleased to be suddenly involved in the discussion.

Raising an eyebrow, Uhura couldn't keep the frustration from her voice as she replied, "Bully for you. This language is _difficult_, I can't translate your flowery descriptions."

McCoy sighed and took hold of Gaila's Tricorder. "Give me a second, I'll see if there's anything on the ship's data banks."

"If not, is there an alternative?" Kirk asked, taking a step towards Uhura.

She shrugged, looking nervously at the 'alien' who supposedly couldn't understand their discussion. "We could try and find some of it to demonstrate the point, but without knowing the specifics of where the plants are, it could be a wild goose chase. Assuming the simulation is detailed enough to have actual examples of lavandula in the immediate vicinity."

"Got it," McCoy interrupted, and both Kirk and Uhura breathed a sigh of relief. McCoy walked over to Spock, holding out the Tricorder display to show the 'alien'. "We're looking for that," he said slowly and clearly, enunciating each word just a little too hard.

"He's not deaf, McCoy," Uhura muttered. "_This is the plant. Do you know it_?"

Spock nodded slowly. "_It is a valuable trading commodity among my people. There are samples growing on our land, but we would expect payment for any quantity_."

"_Would you accept a trade? We do not know your currency._"

"_What do you have to trade_?" he asked.

"Good question. Kirk, what do we have to trade?" Kirk's eyes were wide, his expression blank. Uhura quickly saw that she would have to elaborate. "Lavandula is valuable, and he won't give us any without a trade. How much do you need, and what can we give him in return?"

"We don't need much," McCoy replied quickly. "Enough for the replicator to duplicate sufficient quantities. Maybe, three samples, roots and all. And we could offer the phasers as trade."

"That's against policy," Gaila said quickly. "We can't offer any technology superior to their own; it's against the Prime Directive." She beamed smartly at Commander Y-Brok, who made a show of taking no notice.

"_The female would be acceptable_," Spock said, his face its normal calm mask. "_The one who is green_."

Uhura tried very hard not to let her mouth fall open. "What?" Kirk asked.

Swallowing, Uhura raised a hand to keep her 'Captain' quiet. "_We do not trade people. It is against our laws_."

"_We know of her people, the Orions_," Spock replied, looking at Gaila in a frankly appraising manner. "_The women are traded. Why would this one be different? Perhaps you do not need this plant as badly as you have led us to believe_."

Uhura took two breaths, thinking quickly. "_She is the property of our Captain. He has an emotional..._" she gestured with her hand, searching for the right words, the correct syntax, "_bond with her. He cannot release her._" Her mind quickly hit on a possible resolution, and she stumbled over her words in her hurry to get them out, "_We have technology to make_ ... oh, um ... _duplicates? Of the plant. If you gave us a sample for a short period, we could give you twice as much in return_." She allowed herself a smug smile at the slightly more complex sentence, which she was reasonably sure she had performed accurately. "_You could trade that for your own currency._"

The tiny twitch of Spock's lips told her she had resolved the situation, before he even turned in fake-conference with his colleague.

"Uhura, what's happening?" Kirk demanded.

"I told them we can replicate the plant, give them twice as much in return, which they can in turn trade with their own people for currency."

Kirk grinned. "That's brilliant! Will they agree to that?"

Before Uhura could reply, Spock turned back to her. "_We accept your terms on two conditions. Firstly, we ask that one member of your group remain with us as insurance. Secondly, if your technology is capable of replication, that you take also the seed pods of this plant, so that we may have the means to grow a larger crop. Is this acceptable_?"

Dutifully, Uhura turned and reported to her Captain, receiving confirmation before telling Spock, "_That is acceptable. I will remain with you until the process is complete_." She smiled at Spock, becoming more confident in the foreign tongue. "_I look forward to learning more about your culture_."

*

The Welsh landscape was incredibly deceptive. From the middle-of-nowhere valley in which the shuttle had landed, Uhura would never have guessed that there was habitation anywhere within a twenty mile radius. However, when Spock led her over the top of the ridge, the highest point of the mountain they'd climbed the previous night, there was another valley below. An inhabited valley, filled with hangars bearing the Starfleet insignia on their broad, silver roofs. "_Our trading area_," Spock said.

Uhura raised an eyebrow at him. "_Are we going down there_?" she asked, relaxing into the dialect a little more, now that she was reasonably sure only Spock was assessing her.

"_We will stay here_," he replied. She couldn't be sure, but Uhura thought she detected something of his small, fleeting smile when he looked down at her. The problem with Spock's only not-quite-there smile was that it was difficult to interpret. At such a moment, it could suggest that she had performed well and he was proud of her, or that she had done badly and he was reassuring her – or even that he was just pleased to be alone in her company. Sometimes complex men had their disadvantages.

Spock gestured to a conveniently long, flat rock – slate, she believed – and they sat side-by-side watching the activity below. "_Are we waiting long_?" she asked, hoping that she had correctly formed all the tenses. Even if her portion of the exam was over, she still didn't like the thought of embarrassing herself in front of Spock.

Spock frowned in concentration, apparently equally desirous to speak the formal, complex tongue with accuracy. "_We wait as long as it takes your colleagues to mend their broken ... technology. And for Cadet McCoy to attend to Commander Y-Brok's ... adverse reaction to Orion contact_."

Uhura nodded slowly. "_Commander Y-Brok is __**allergic**__ to Orions_?" She could not help the slight, smug smile that curved her lips, certain that she had provided the word Spock had wished to use.

That earned her a raised eyebrow that had the same effect on her hormonal system as thunderous applause and a full-on declaration of love. "_Indeed_."

Sighing as the silent minutes dragged by, Uhura tapped her feet on the ground, slightly unnerved by Spock's stillness.

"_Your movement is distracting_," he told her.

"_I'm bored_," she admitted.

He blinked, eyebrows raised slightly in an intriguing expression. Hands reaching into the folds of his black robes, Uhura watched with interest as Spock withdrew a deck of cards. "_Do your people play a game called _Snap?" he asked with a slight quirk to the corners of his lips.

Uhura grinned as he shuffled the cards, and turned happily on the rock to face him.

*

Amazingly enough, the sun broke through the clouds as they made their descent back down the rocky slope. It was warm – not sweltering like back at home, where proximity to the equator made every day a different kind of hot, but an improvement on the damp chill that had defined the morning and previous day. Uhura couldn't be certain, but she thought that Spock felt it, too. His frame had relaxed slightly, no longer stiff across the shoulders, and she noticed him more than once turn his face up to the sun. It made her smile, to think how he would react to the climate back home. But that led to far too many overly romantic fantasies of taking him home to meet the family. Even if she were in any position to be in a relationship with _Commander_ Spock – which, they had both agreed, she was not – he was not a 'meet the parents' kind of guy.

Still, such thoughts weren't easily forgotten, and Uhura made sure she was the last of 'Team Kirk' to board. Everyone else was eager to sit by the window and enjoy the sun, which made it easy for Uhura to choose a seat by herself. McCoy lifted a querying eyebrow in her direction, but she smiled and shook her head. Gaila – who knew better than to disturb Uhura when she was in one of her brooding moods – carefully distracted the Doctor. And when Gaila chose to distract, she was always successful.

The shuttle ride back to San Francisco was smoother. From what she could see through the nearest portal the view was beautiful. Her colleagues chatted as they watched the small island grow smaller beneath them, and eventually melting into the roiling sea. Uhura wished she was in a mood to properly appreciate it.

Spock appeared from the cockpit and, after little deliberation, came to sit beside Uhura. He remained silent for some minutes, before commenting, "You are displaying signs of nervousness. This is illogical. The simulation is complete."

Glancing up at Gaila, Uhura murmured, "I suggest you use your own dialect; Gaila speaks Standard Vulcan."

He raised an eyebrow, turning his head to look at her for the first time. "I had not intended to say anything that could not be overheard." He had, nevertheless, slipped to the less formal and more obscure mutations of his native dialect.

"I'm concerned about my performance," Uhura said softly, answering his original question. It was not the only reason she had wanted to be on her own, but there was no need for Spock to know that. "I don't know if I performed adequately."

From the small frown on his face, Uhura gathered he was internally debating something. She waited patiently, until he finally responded, "I can make no comment on your performance as I am not your instructor. My inclusion in this simulation was purely coincidental. Your aptitude for languages has made it difficult for your teachers to test your abilities by standardised means, and I presented an opportunity that you yourself brought to their attention." He took a breath, head tilting slightly as the frown smoothed away from his face. "But I can relate that you took the most logical course of action, and adequately executed an unfamiliar language under duress."

Uhura felt her cheeks warm, quite different feelings – excitement, joy and hope – coursing through her. "Thank you," she said softly.

"It was a statement of fact, not a compliment," Spock said, perhaps a little too sharply. Moderating his tone, he lowered the volume of his voice a little more, just in case. "There was only one fault I found with your performance on this mission."

Sighing and knowing it was too good to be true, Uhura asked, "What did I do wrong?"

"You talk in your sleep," Spock said, glancing at her with amusement lighting his dark, human eyes. "This could lead to inadvertently revealing confidential information to a captor or any other sleep partner." Uhura could feel her face burning up. She _knew_ that touch, that voice she'd heard had been too real. "It is something you should keep in check. Perhaps Doctor McCoy would have some suggestions as to the best way to suppress your subconscious reactions?"

"Doctor McCoy can do what, now?" McCoy spoke up from the other side of the shuttle, and Uhura cursed his good hearing.

"I was merely registering my disapproval of one of Cadet Uhura's nocturnal habits, and suggesting she consult with you to remedy the situation," Spock replied before Uhura had the chance.

Uhura's face was giving off enough heat to power a warp reactor and she began to think how wonderful it would be if the bottom of the shuttle could open up and eject her as soon as possible. As it didn't, all she could do was shrug at McCoy's perplexed look – obviously not sure whether to be offended or embarrassed. "I'll tell you later," she said.

And was pleased that this earned her a (for Spock) scathing glance from the Vulcan at her side.


	10. June Again

_Disclaimer: Star Trek's definitely not mine, Shakespeare's not mine, and Quen ain't mine. I wish they all were, but they're not._

_Author's Notes: Thanks to Dave and Kimberley for the usual stellar job, and to guest beta Delphi._

**June**

"_I'm travelling at the speed of light_

_I'm gonna make a supersonic man out of you"_

As usual for a Wednesday afternoon, Commander Spock was grading assignments in his office. He sat facing away from the window, so the sun streaming through would warm his back as he worked. Aside from the stack of PADDs on which he worked, his desk was empty for purposes of both efficiency and order. Photographs would have been an unnecessary distraction, an inappropriate display of his private life that did not suit the semi-public environment of his work space. No other PADDs awaited his attention, because work was always completed in a timely fashion, assignments returned to students at the earliest opportunity. Only a standard personal computer console to his right broke up the blank expanse of hardened, highly polished glass. The monitor, however, was turned off to avoid any diversion of his attention.

The office's location in a remote corner of the Sciences block meant that there was little background noise, and even less chance of being disturbed. Even Spock's over-sensitive Vulcan ears found the atmosphere blessedly silent. No sound but the gentle tap-beep, tap-beep as he flicked through pages on the data PADD which currently held his full attention.

Until he picked up the gentle thud of footsteps approaching. They were still far away; it would be a long time before their maker physically appeared. Spock did not pause in his work, fully expecting the steps to stop while still far away, or change direction to another wing of the Sciences. However, when the sound grew close enough that he was ninety-three per cent sure they came from the hallway beyond his office, Spock began to analyse them.

Brisk steps, but light, probably female. She wore rubber soled boots, most likely Starfleet issue. And – Spock turned his head to the side, pausing his work on the PADD for two seconds – she was humming under her breath. Spock blinked and resumed his work.

At the chime of his door, Spock placed his stylus to one side and arranged his face into its normal mask of blank indifference. "Enter."

The door opened promptly on his command and, slipping through the space before it had fully opened, in walked a positively-glowing Nyota Uhura. Spock looked neither surprised nor happy at her sudden appearance, but very slightly raised his right eyebrow and greeted her, "Good afternoon, Cadet. May I help you?"

She didn't respond immediately, but stood beaming opposite him. Then, after an interval of thirteen seconds, Nyota pulled from her satchel a small, portable PADD and, her head tilting to one side, read in a tone of extreme pride, "'Cadet Uhura's performance during Simulation 393/42 could only be described as exemplary. She demonstrated an ability to take command of a situation, excellent problem-solving skills and an understanding of First Contact procedure that is second to none. Her gift for Xenolinguistics was recently tested and proven to be beyond Academy standards, and adequately performed a rare language with complex morphology, syntax and phonetics.'" She took a moment to glance up at Spock, whose face remained carefully impassive. Only something in his eyes, some small, bright flicker of emotion showed at hearing the words of his own recommendation read back to him. "'Furthermore, an overview of previous simulations and examinations proves she has an unparalleled ability to identify sonic anomalies in subspace transmission tests. All of these factors result in my personal recommendation that, on full completion of her final examinations to the standard of her current performance, it is my _personal recommendation_ that she be assigned to duty aboard the _Enterprise_ upon the ship's readiness.'"

She looked up at him, hands dropping to her sides, grinning. Spock took a moment to admire the way in which her eyes shone. He somehow doubted she reached this level of joy often, and it was only logical to appreciate fleeting but intense beauty as and when the opportunity was presented.

"That is a confidential document, Cadet," Spock said eventually. "I must ask how it came to be in your possession."

Nyota rolled her eyes – the first time he had ever seen her do so, which was testimony enough to her heightened emotional state. "There's no such thing as confidential in this place. The engineering and interception students are too good for the Commanders to stay ahead of the game. And I know it's a bad idea to tell you that I even got this but ... Thank you! So much!"

Swallowing, Spock felt heat rising over his ears, as twists of orange and purple and fiery blue danced through his emotional centre. "Gratitude would be an inaccurate sentiment to express at such a time. Were I to draw any other conclusion from your performance, I would not be completing my job correctly. Furthermore, commissions are not sent solely on my recommendation, which was given purely on the condition that you maintain your currently high standards to the completion of your academic course." Taking a breath and relaxing slightly as her effusive expression began to abate into one of more familiar bemusement, he added, "As a student of Communications, I would have thought that you would have paid more attention to the conditional clause."

Placing the portable PADD back in her satchel, Nyota addressed the computer, "Lock door." She waited for the beep of confirmation before stepping smoothly around Spock's broad desk. He did not move or flinch, made no outward sign of the mild, pea-green thread of concern that was starting to mask the other colours in his glass box. Nor did he move when Nyota placed one hand on his desk, bracing her weight to lean down and brush her lips against his.

She had kept her eyes open this time, he dimly noticed, most of his attention focussed on not leaning into her touch. She tilted her head, watching his eyes – though for what reason, he could not fathom – and moved her lips against his. Reflex and stimulation and, if he were to be entirely honest, desire caused him to return the kiss. Not by pushing closer or deepening the kiss, but simply by responding in kind to the caressing movements of Nyota's lips.

When she pulled back again, standing straight, Nyota was still smiling. "That was a 'thank you', not a come on. In case you were worried."

"As a professional expression of gratitude, it strikes me as somewhat inappropriate," Spock said smoothly. He arched an eyebrow. "Should I warn Captain Pike of your methodology?" It was what was referred to as a tease and he hoped he had performed the human action adequately.

That strange expression that was both smile and frown passed over her face again, and Spock wished that he knew how to accurately place an emotion to it. "Fine, I admit it. There might have been a bit of a come on there."

A silence stretched between them, neither one certain how to move on from the shared kiss that should have been awkward, but instead felt ... right.

"I understood that we had an agreement regarding our strictly professional relationship," Spock began softly. He did not particularly want to say the words, but duty dictated that they were necessary.

"You know, I've been thinking about that. May I sit down?"

"Of course," Spock replied.

She perched on the edge of his desk instead of taking the seat opposite. Part of him had been looking forward to having something solid between them. A physical barrier would make the necessary severance of attachment somehow easier. Instead, he subtly slid back his chair, placing more space between his body and hers.

"I've been trying to think about this logically," her eyes slid up to his, a wry smile tugging at her lips, "which, I know, is harder for me than it is for you. But I really wanted you to respect my opinion, and that seemed like the smartest way to make myself understood." Spock nodded for her to continue. "First, I've been looking into Starfleet regulations, and the only officers absolutely excluded from relations with their juniors on ethical grounds are captains. To the best of my knowledge, you're not a captain. Not yet, anyway. As far as the Academy goes, there are rules relating to the proper use of Cadet dormitories, but I'm not looking to infringe on any of those. And there are strict regulations excluding relationships between Commanders and their students." Her dark eyes looked intently into his, a small frown drawing her eyebrows together. "But I seem to remember you establishing an informality on our meetings based specifically on the fact that I am not your student."

"I have been called on to assess your work," Spock interrupted gently, with a hint of peach regret, "At that point, you became my student."

"It was a single assessment, Spock. That's a grey area, at best. Furthermore, the basis for these regulations is the pre-conceived notion that a romantic relationship may result in favouritism. First off, I'm not sure that you're capable of favouritism." She smiled, small but pleasing. "And in the second place, one doesn't need to be in a physical relationship to have feelings that might lead them to favouritism, if one were so inclined."

"I hope this is not in reference to my recommendation, Nyota," he warned.

Far from causing an expression of contrition, Nyota smiled widely at him and belatedly he realised he had not denied the emotions to which she referred. He cleared his throat slightly, eyes flicking away from her face for the first time. "Furthermore, you forget that Vulcans do not 'feel'. Not in the manner to which you're referring."

"_You_ feel," Nyota replied quickly, with a little too much certainty in her voice.

"It would be unwise to draw such a conclusion from the little you know of me," Spock replied smoothly.

She slipped a little closer along the smooth glass surface, her hand coming to rest just beside Spock's arm. "I worked it out, you know. A little private research into Vulcan physiology, and you'd be amazed what you can find. You were holding my hand, weren't you?"

Though there was no change in his external demeanour, Spock's mind ran rapidly through the conversation – through all of their previous conversations – trying to locate the moment at which he had apparently laid himself so bare to her scrutiny. It was not entirely surprising that she had discovered his moment of weakness three weeks previous. She was, after all, a highly intelligent woman. But that chinks in his self-control had been produced by an inclination to relax the strict harness on his emotions while in her presence. This was unacceptable but undeniable and, he suspected, irreversible. The entire situation would require a large amount of meditation to replace at least some of the emotional strictures Nyota had been covertly demolishing.

He had remained silent for too long. Yet another error in his judgement, as Nyota had chosen to take his silence for acquiescence.

"In conclusion," Nyota said primly, as though she were delivering a report of little importance, "_Logically_, I can't think of a decent reason why you shouldn't get out of your chair and kiss me."

As highly inappropriate as it was, the voice of Spock's mother floated to the surface of his subconscious. She asked him once, when he was still just a child, what logic there was in using an entire bottle of her very expensive perfume for one of his science experiments as a child. He had calmly, in the face of her rare but intense anger, explained the many academic benefits his actions had caused. That it was logical for him to continue experimenting and repeat his methodology to allow for variables. Mother had shaken her head and muttered, "You and your father and your _logic_. You both have a way of making it whatever you want it to be."

If this was true – and it was rare to find his mother in the wrong, despite her human failings – Nyota was more Vulcan than he could ever have imagined.

With a surge of purple and orange, Spock made the best decision possible using both sides of his personality and heritage. He slid his hand across the desk and brushed his fingertips over her knuckles. Her hand was as cool and smooth as he remembered, and the feel of her against his own highly sensitised digits sent a pleasurable resonance through his nervous system. Spock covered her small hand with his, running his thumb along the back of her middle finger.

"You're not throwing me out. Why aren't you kissing me?" Nyota asked softly.

Spock did not look up at her. He was too fascinated by the contrasting shades of their skin as he slipped his fingers between hers, twining them together. "I am," he said simply. His mind reached out to hers. He felt again that chaotic jumble of emotions and thoughts.

"Oh." Nyota turned her hand so that they held one another palm to palm. "_And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss_," she whispered, smiling. He did not know she smiled because he saw it, but because he felt it from within her.

"And in Vulcan?" Spock said, finally looking up at her with happiness and amusement and desire all deeply suppressed but undeniably suffusing his emotional centre. But naturally, none of those feelings showed by as much as a twitch in his face.

Nyota's eyes widened. "Crap, Conversational Vulcan!" She jumped off his desk, and moved toward the door. The sudden severance of contact left Spock's mind feeling cold and alone, the careful order of his thoughts and confined feelings becoming empty after the busy contact with Nyota's entirely free mental landscape. "I have to go, I'm late – Computer, unlock door." The responding beep sounded as she moved quickly towards the door. Something of Spock's disappointment must have shown, however minutely, in his face as Nyota added, "I'm sorry. Look, there's a whole bunch of us going out to celebrate results. Would you come?"

"Nyota, in light of-"

"It's just the Fleet bar, there are Commanders there all the time. It'll be fine, I promise."

Spock raised an eyebrow. He would have cautioned Nyota against making promises she could not guarantee, but there was clearly little time. "If I am not required elsewhere, I will attend in a purely congratulatory role."

She grinned as the door opened. "See you later, Sp-Commander."

"Good afternoon, Cadet."

When the door closed, Spock wasted no time returning to his work. It would, after all, need to be completed expediently if his presence was required elsewhere later that evening.

*

In all his years at Starfleet Academy, both as a Cadet and a graduate, Spock had successfully avoided the 'Fleet bar. He had cultivated excuses for numerous occasions in the early days, when his fellow cadets were sure it would only be a matter of time before his human side asserted itself. The fact that some of his colleagues persisted right to the end of Spock's four year studentship only served to prove him right: humans were an illogical race and wherever they chose to drink away their illogical evenings was no place for him.

Once he had graduated, Spock had no qualms in taking a more direct approach. During his studentship he had hedged and quietly excused himself, still wishing to be socially accepted by his peers if not _actually_ socialise with them. As a graduate he was more direct: "I have no desire to enter your cathedral of inebriation. Your invitations, while gracious, are unnecessary. Please stop issuing them."

Standing by the bar – for there was no room to comfortably stand anywhere else – Spock thanked whatever deities could hear him over the din that he had managed to avoid this place for so long. It brought him to wonder what severe lapse in logic had eventually brought him here. Techno beats played at a volume designed to make inanimate objects bleed. No, that was an impossible hyperbole – probably brought about by his brain cells crashing against one another due to sound vibration processed at dangerous levels by his sensitive ears. To add to the general unpleasantness, he was surrounded by partially naked, perspiring bodies that gyrated against one another in time to the so-called music. There were too many people in too small a space – and yet by all available empirical evidence, they were enjoying themselves. Incomprehensible, and for once Spock had no desire to gain more information to devise the precise reasons for such an illogical response to deeply unpleasant stimuli.

The only thing that kept the experience from being entirely unbearable was Nyota's presence.

She had observed him the moment he entered, and weaved through the crowd to intercept him. Still in her scarlet uniform, the only differences in her appearance were that she had let down her long hair, and increased the amount of cosmetics she wore. It was quite an unnecessary gesture, but he had observed that many human women seemed to think it indispensable.

Handing him a glass containing a clear liquid, she rose up on her toes, pressing closer to speak to him above the music. "It's sparkling water with a twist of lime. I hope that's OK."

"Quite adequate," he replied, unaccustomed to raising his voice. The small frown on her face made him wonder whether she had heard him correctly.

Nyota glanced over her shoulder, and he followed her gaze. Her friends were dancing together. Spock steeled himself to refuse joining them.

But when Nyota tugged on his wrist, he stooped slightly so she could speak at her normal volume, but near enough for her lips to brush his cheekbone. "I know you won't join us, and I know you probably don't want to dance or do any kind of human bonding rituals, or whatever. But I really appreciate you coming." Her fingertips ran over his thumb, and Spock decided now would be the moment to develop a coping strategy for suppressing his body's natural reactions. Strategy mark one: firm touches were easier on his nervous system than fleeting, teasing strokes. He turned his hand, squeezing her fingers briefly before releasing them.

"Captain Pike is standing by the bar. I believe I will join him," Spock replied against Nyota's ear. He did not hear her sigh of pleasure when his lips made contact with the shell, but rather felt the soft puff of air against his skin. It was a reaction he had a highly illogical desire to experience again.

Looking over to the bar, Nyota nodded. She did not say anything else, but gestured for him to make his way over. Spock hesitated only a moment before doing so – though he paused en route to watch Nyota return to her friends. And somehow – it would take further observation to deduce a plausible working theory as to the precise mechanics involved – somehow she managed to make those grinding, thrusting movements, which were identical to everyone else's, seem erotic rather than vulgar. As he watched, she pressed back against McCoy, who definitely looked vulgar, and smiled up at him over her shoulder. The doctor's hand slid down her side to hold her hip and pull her a fraction of an inch closer. A deeply unpleasant olive green flared up in Spock's mind.

"This is the last place I expected to see you!" A firm hand clamped down on his shoulder. Spock easily broke the contact, turning in a way that brought him face-to-face with Captain Pike but took his shoulder out of the other man's reach. After so many years in the company of humans, it was one of several strategies he had developed to minimise physical contact without giving offense. The Captain grinned at him. Clearly, to him, the surprise was a pleasant one. "Is this some kind of Vulcan holiday or something?"

"One can only avoid a place for so long before growing curious," Spock replied smoothly, relieved to have moved away from the sound system. Spock nodded to two of his colleagues, who stood beside the Captain.

"Well, what d'you think?" Pike asked, leaning back against the bar.

Spock had always found it difficult to lie to a superior office, and so replied, "It surpasses all expectations."

Pike laughed, but before he could say anything more Nyota's Orion room mate appeared at his side. Her green skin glowed from exertion, and she tottered a little, holding on to the bar for purchase. "Captain Pike! You're a gentleman. Buy a girl a drink?"

One side of his mouth lifting in an easy if bemused smile, Pike turned to the young Cadet and took a subtle half-step back from her. "Certainly will, but it's going to be a soft one. A soda, maybe?"

Gaila, who Spock judged to be not nearly as drunk as she was pretending to be, lifted a critical eyebrow. "How _nice_ of you. I'll settle for a soda if you'll dance with me."

Pike shook his head, turning to Spock to ask rhetorically, "What have you been teaching this girl in negotiations?" He leaned over the bar and called out, "Can I get a soda over here, please? With ice? Someone needs cooling down."

Nevertheless, Captain Pike was only partially unwilling as he was dragged towards the writhing mass of human bodies. Faintly, he heard the Captain say, "Fine, one dance, but I'm going home after that. _Alone_." Neither of his colleagues seemed desirous of engaging Spock in any kind of conversation, so he contented himself with watching the crowd.

But Spock never merely watched, for such an idle action was beneath him. Particularly when he was surrounded by new displays of human behaviour, entirely different from anything he observed in the classroom or the mess hall. Focussing on a predictable portion of the room, he closely studied the movements of three particular humans.

Cadets Kirk, McCoy and Nyota danced together on the fringes of the crowd. They laughed as they moved and regularly made eye contact, smiling as though at some private joke. The two men were comfortable enough in each other's company to touch, which was something Spock had noticed many heterosexual men preferred not to do in public. And Nyota, while clearly enjoying herself, frequently pulled away from the hands of the other two. She did not complain, but neither did she allow them to get too close. McCoy broke away and began to walk towards the bar, head still bobbing to the rhythm. Nyota's smile became more forced as the second man drew closer to her, but she was more than capable, Spock knew, of fending for herself.

Cadet McCoy had clearly noticed Spock's presence, for he came towards him without deviation. The slightly shorter man leant against the bar to Spock's left and waited for service. "Fancy seeing you here, Commander," he drawled without looking at Spock.

Spock said nothing.

"You don't seem to be enjoying yourself much," McCoy continued when he got no response.

"On the contrary. It is proving to be a fascinating social exercise." Spock sipped his drink for the first time. Nyota had made a valiant effort in choosing a beverage, but the lime flavour reminded Spock too clearly of less favourable emotions. He put the glass down on the bar and clasped his hands behind his back.

"You like watching the crowd," McCoy noted. As the bartender drew near, his eyebrows flashed in greeting, and his body shifted forwards over the surface to gain and keep the server's attention. "Bud Classic, please." Deft movements removed the cap from the bottle, and passed it over the bar to McCoy's waiting hand. As the Captain had done before him, McCoy turned and leant back, staring out at the mass of bodies along with Spock. "I get that. I watch people a lot, too."

"Indeed," Spock said noncommittally.

"I've been watching Uhura. Y'know, because I'm not blind. What sane man wouldn't?" Spock could feel the other man's scrutiny, and was very careful not to tighten his jaw, narrow his eyes or make any other physical sign that McCoy's words had any kind of affect. "Pity it's a lost cause." Another pause. Spock had absolutely no intention of showing how closely he was listening. Patience was a Vulcan virtue, as well as a human one. "She's got her heart set on some other guy. Can't figure out who it is, though. Say, Commander, you have those snuggly intimate little Vulcan chats every week." In the periphery of his vision, he saw McCoy turn to face him. "Has she said anything to you?"

Slowly, with a calculated raise of the eyebrow, Spock looked over at the young doctor. He took his time, formulating his words carefully. "Cadet McCoy. Your suggestion that I share some sort of intimacy with Cadet Uhura is severely misplaced. Furthermore, any information shared with me in the privacy of my own quarters is entirely confidential. As a doctor, I assume you understand the concept?"

Far from having the desired effect, McCoy cracked a wide grin, lifting his bottle to take a long draft. "Indeed I do, Commander. Indeed I do."

Though he drew breath to respond with a query regarding the Cadet's bizarre reaction, he was interrupted. Nyota's slim form slipped between them. She leaned into McCoy, in what Spock thought to be an entirely unnecessary manner, and rested a hand against his shoulder. "I'm shattered, I'm going home."

"Aw, but this is your big 'I'm a genius' party," he said, hand resting casually on her waist. Spock could not be certain, but thought he saw the doctor's eyes flick in his direction for a split second.

"Yeah, well," Nyota slid away, moving to stand opposite the pair. "Geniuses are no good if they're hung over and tired."

"OK," McCoy shifted closer, pulling Nyota into a sloppy hug, which she returned with an awkward look in Spock's direction. Spock raised his customary eyebrow a fraction, only half-amused. "I'd better go prop Jim up in case he falls on someone's breasts again."

Spock believed he would have to have serious words with Nyota about the company she kept outside of the classroom.

And finally, the inebriated young medic was gone. Nyota moved imperceptibly closer to Spock. When just the tips of her fingers interlocked with his, he felt among her many tumultuous emotions a fluttering note of subtle pink nervousness that was surprisingly endearing. "Walk me home?" she asked.

"It would be ... a great relief," he responded quickly.

They walked side-by-side across the campus grounds. The night was clear, hot and dry in a way that made Spock feel almost at home. Nyota was close, but not close enough to draw undue attention. Spock's head was very slightly bowed as he walked, hands clasped behind his back. His companion's posture was much more relaxed, and she weaved very slightly as they walked. Her arm occasionally bumped against his, though he could not discern whether the contact was intended or accidental. The pair maintained a comfortable silence for most of the walk, but as they turned past the large Starfleet monument, and through the quad toward the dorms, Nyota commented in Vulcan, "I like your kind of kissing. Do you like it?"

The question seemed rather redundant. By definition, the hand contact that was an approximation of 'kissing' in the Vulcan culture was intended to be pleasurable. It was designed to stimulate through skin-to-skin contact one of the most sensitive areas of the Vulcan anatomy and, when such a contact occurred with a person one found attractive to begin with, it could only produce a pleasurable response. However, Nyota was looking at him with the same slight fog in her eyes that he had noticed on New Year's Eve. So he merely replied, "I do."

"It's more ... innocent than human kissing." Though her command of the language was in most circumstances flawless, she was ever so slightly slurring through her glottal stops. Nyota reached behind him and tugged gently on his wrist, until he relented and allowed his arms to rest at his sides. She lightly scraped her nails up his palm, and then chuckled. "You're blushing," she told him. "I can tell, you go all green around your ears."

Spock did not deny the accusation, but took her hand more firmly in his, moving close to her so the intimacy would not be immediately obvious to any on-lookers.

They came level with the entrance to the cadet dormitories, and Nyota stopped. "You probably shouldn't come in."

Spock nodded, relieved that he was not required to make an excuse that might bring Nyota to the wrong conclusion. He did, however, take two extra steps to bring them into the shadowed doorway and the building, allowing them to be hidden from at least eighty-five per cent of the surrounding buildings. "First, you should be aware that allowing you to touch my hand is not 'innocent' by any definition on Vulcan." Purple flared through the glass enclosure of his emotions, drowning out every other colour as he watched Nyota's pupils dilate. He ran his thumb over her palm in a manner he himself would have found deeply erotic. But Nyota just smiled. This was an unsatisfactory reaction. "Second, while more obvious to a casual observer, the human form of kissing has many pleasing advantages."

Spock gently pulled Nyota closer, and enjoyed her soft hum of pleasure as their lips met in what was becoming a familiar action. Her fingers ran up over his wrist, and Spock found that all his coping strategies could not hold back the involuntary shiver that ran along his spine.

*

Although Spock's calculations were entirely accurate, he had made one very grave error. While only fifteen per cent – or fifteen-point-three per cent, to be specific – of the surrounding buildings had a masked or direct view of the shadowed doorway in which the couple kissed, he had not taken into account the importance of one of those windows. At one, single, unluckily occupied window a stern figure stood glancing out at the night on a whim. Not at all expecting to see the unmistakable form of one of his finest Commanders walking beside a female cadet. And was he mistaken? Or were they holding hands? He took a step closer to the window, his frown deepening when Spock pulled the cadet into the doorway and, saying something he could not even guess at, leaned down to kiss her in a manner that couldn't possibly be taken as platonic.

Sighing and shaking his head, Captain Pike turned away from the window. Twenty-three-hundred hours was no time to fix such a situation. This was something he'd need to sleep on.


	11. July

_Disclaimer: Star Trek and its characters aren't mine. The quote is from "Fix You" by Coldplay._

_Author's Notes: Thanks to David for plot and characterisation advice, and to Darry for the usual fantastic beta._

**July**

"_When you're too in love to let it go_

_But if you never try then you'll never know"_

Captain Christopher Pike considered himself to be a very lucky man. He had two kids, both now in their teens, and no wife – ex or otherwise. He loved his job, but didn't live for it, and when he wasn't called on to be a general or a diplomat, he also enjoyed his position at the Academy. So many young, talented people had passed through his small cluttered office and gone on to achieve great things. He considered Spock to be one of his more exceptional students.

A singular cadet, enthusiastic research student and formidable commander – at least Christopher was sure he would be as soon as they found a decent post for him. Until that time, Spock had seemed content to teach and had settled into an easy routine. Vulcans were blessed with a long lifespan, and Spock was apparently in no hurry. He'd developed a reputation among the students as a bit of a frosty bastard, but it was healthy to have a few such personalities on the roster. It kept the kids in check.

So Christopher had found it alarming that Spock, the most reliable and rule-abiding commander in the 'Fleet, needed to be called to his office. After witnessing what he had from his bedroom window, there was no way he could just let it slide. It might be a gray area according to the rules, but any selection boards would certainly frown upon an illicit relationship with a cadet if this got out. So he had watched. For two weeks he kept a very close eye on Spock, dropped in on his classes, observed him from across the mess at mealtimes, spoken to a few of his students. In every respect his conduct seemed exemplary. This did not make matters any easier.

The door chimed, announcing his guest's arrival. "Come on in, Spock," Christopher called, the door somehow translating his indirect command and swishing open.

Spock's appearance was as fastidious as ever. Clean-shaved, razor-sharp hairline, immaculately pressed black uniform. Christopher was pretty sure that, were he to look down, he would see his own reflection in Spock's standard issue boots. He stood about a foot from the desk, posture ram-rod straight, hands clasped behind his back. The man's slightly disarming eyes stared fixedly at the wall.

"Please, Spock, take a seat." Christopher sat back in his chair, purposely keeping his body language informal.

"Thank you, Captain. I prefer to stand."

The older man nodded, spreading his hands on the desk before him. "OK." He took a breath, watching Spock closely. "Do you know why I asked you up here?"

Nothing. Didn't want to lie, and didn't want to give anything away. He had to admit, in Spock's position he'd react exactly the same.

"There was a night about two weeks ago when I saw you walking with a woman in a Cadet's uniform. And you were acting in a way that makes me think you were or are romantically involved with her. Now, I don't know who she is, and I'm not asking you to tell me." Because, let's face it, when the faculty had chuckled about Gaila tricking Spock into kissing her room mate under the mistletoe, it had all seemed completely innocent. It was common knowledge she went to him for extra tuition on the Vulcan language – hell, it was a fact they'd used to their best advantage in her recent simulation – but Christopher knew it was all too easy for a close working relationship to turn into more. He just plain hadn't thought Spock was capable.

Spock was still perfectly still, offering neither explanation nor excuse. Instead, he waited patiently for the axe to fall. It would have been admirable, if it weren't so damned infuriating.

"I know you, or I thought I did. I know you well enough to be sure you've read the rule book. And if it were any other man standing in front of me, I'd be throwing it at them."

Still nothing. Christopher stood and took a step closer to his immoveable former student. He tried to reconcile this stern, serious figure with the one he had seen tilt his head and kiss a pretty girl, or walk through the quad holding hands. It somehow didn't quite gel. "There's nothing written directly against a Cadet and a commanding officer, if she's not your student. I'm assuming she's not?"

Spock blinked, and it was something of a relief that he wasn't entirely made of stone. "No, Captain."

Well, at least he wasn't trying to deny it. Not that Christopher had thought for a moment he would. That would have been a human response, and Spock clearly reserved his human responses for very special occasions. "OK. But I'm sure you can also see how a selection committee might take this situation into account. It could still be interpreted as an abuse of power, Spock. And it would be a heck of a shame to have to pass the iKobayashi Maru/i programming over to someone else. Let alone forgetting about that nice little commission I know you're angling for." For the first time, Spock's eyes met his Captain's. Christopher had had a sneaking suspicion that, beyond all else, the iEnterprise/i was still at the forefront of Spock's surprisingly ambitious mind. "Mmm. Thought that might get your attention," he muttered. "You ready to sit down yet?"

Christopher could see the calculations running through the Vulcan's head, as if the social interaction could be turned into an equation and simplified. With a stiff nod, Spock took the other chair, and Christopher returned to his own seat. "Now, I taught you for four years, Spock. I was an assessor on your post-grad thesis. You've always been an exemplary student, and you're doing pretty well as a teacher. You'll be better on a starship, but we'll get to that. I'm not going to ask iwhy/i you'd jeopardise everything for some Cadet, because I think that would be a stupid question. Men like you don't just pick a lady out of a hat, now, do they? But what I do need to know is that this isn't going to affect your work – or hers, for that matter – and that there will be no favouritism if you're called on to make a judgement on her future."

To his credit, Spock thought it over. He was balancing up whatever passed for emotion against his ability to do his job, in a way that sort of had the Captain decided before he even spoke. "I have already made a recommendation on her behalf. It was not at her behest, but because I was asked for my opinion. My opinion of any person's capability to do a job is entirely unaffected by whatever they may be to me in a social capacity. But I would understand if my personal reference cannot be taken on record." He took a deep breath, eyebrows drawing together very slightly. "To the best of my knowledge, which is considerable, my performance has been exemplary in every respect."

"Except for your drop out rate, Spock. You lose more Cadets than any other teacher in the Sciences."

One eyebrow raised independent of the other, in the way it used to when Spock knew he was right and the textbook was wrong. "If Cadets cannot keep up with a perfectly reasonable workload, I do not see how I can be blamed."

"I'm sure you don't," Christopher grinned. "If I choose to keep this under my hat, it is strictly on the grounds that I know if anyone can keep a straight head when it comes to women, it's you. I need for you to prove me right."

Spock continued to stare at the wall to the right of Christopher's head. It might have been his imagination, but he thought Spock let out a breath he might have been holding. Eventually, after no doubt further calculations and scenario considerations, he gave a single terse nod.

"And that includes being a little more discrete, Commander." Christopher allowed his voice to take on a teasing note. "No more making out in doorways or holding hands down the corridors. I don't mind telling you there are a fair few people on this staff looking for a reason to keep you on an Outlook on the edge of the Neutral Zone."

One more stiff nod. "Agreed," he replied.

"Good," Christopher said. "Dismissed, Commander."

He watched the Vulcan rise, tugging at his tunic to pull it straight. He turned and took long strides to the door. "Oh, Spock, one more thing," Christopher said, halting the Commander. Spock turned his head, eyes flicking back to the desk. "Tell Uhura she aced that last simulation, and I'm very proud of her."

Something like a smile quivered at the corner of Spock's lips, before it was quickly repressed. "I will pass your message to Nyota. She will be flattered."

The door having closed, leaving Christopher alone in his office, he let out a bark of laughter and stretched to rest his hands behind his head. Because if Spock wasn't falling as fast and hard as a Vulcan could for that pretty over-achiever, then he was a monkey's uncle.

*

Her husband ensconced in the meditation room, Amanda was free to turn to the computer console without being expected to explain herself. It was never easy being stuck between two very stubborn Vulcan men, especially when they so easily invented unnecessary conflict backed up by their terribly convenient logic. Sarek was logically angry at Spock for turning down the Science Academy in favour of Starfleet and embarrassing him in front of his fellow Ministers. Spock was logically angry at his father for not supporting his decision, nor for standing up for his human heritage.

Except of course, neither of them was angry. Or embarrassed. Or stubborn. Because that would have been iillogical/i, and pointing out anything to the contrary was just too much like hard work. It was genuinely easier to sneak transmissions to Spock when Sarek wasn't looking.

She thought of it as sneaking, but of course Sarek knew about the communications link she had set up with Spock's quarters at the Academy. He professed to have no opinion on Amanda's illogical, irrational, emotional, ihuman/i need to keep close relations with her only son.

Checking the clock on the console monitor, she made quick calculations. Today was one of those rare occasions when the daylight hours of Earth and Vulcan were roughly synched. It should be early evening, meaning Spock would be studying or meditating. With a shrug, she took her chances. "Computer, open communication line to 'Spock Academy'."

The machine chirruped in response and she waited a few moments. Then a message flashed up on the screen, reporting 'Access Granted – Connecting'.

Then the message was gone, and instead she saw the usual scene as taken by the camera in the corner of Spock's living room. A sofa and two chairs upholstered in bland Starfleet gray; an empty desk to the left of his small kitchenette; and the sun set clearly visible through the window. She searched the screen for movement, and saw Spock rising from the sofa. This, in itself, was odd. Spock preferred a stool or straight-backed chair, something more regimented and ... Vulcan. But as the figure straightened, it became very obvious that it was not Spock. A smaller figure, feminine, silhouetted against the window. Squinting slightly, Amanda leaned closer to try and make the woman out. "Hello?" she said tentatively.

"Hello, Mrs Grayson. It's Uhura – we spoke briefly once before?"

Eyebrows instantly lifted as the girl came into focus, stepping up closer to the camera. Amanda smiled widely and noticed for the first time what a very attractive young woman this Uhura was. "Yes, of course. Good evening, Miss Uhura. I'm sorry to interrupt, but it can be a bit of a challenge to find days when the hours are reasonable here and on Earth."

"Oh, you're not interrupting. Spock's just gone next door for some sugar. He won't be a minute." The girl leant on one hip, hands fidgeting before her. Amanda had almost forgotten what a nervous young human looked like and it made her smile and remember the days when she had been young and awkward. "It's easy enough for us to re-schedule. I really hate to intrude."

"Not an intrusion at all. It's nice to know Spock has company." Amanda tried not to load the word with any connotations, despite her suspicions that her son might have found someone to care for as more-than-a-friend.

Uhura turned as the door opened behind her and Spock entered. "Nyota?" he murmured, when he saw that the girl was not where he had left her.

"A transmission came in, and as it was from Vulcan I accepted. I hope that's acceptable," the girl said in flawless Standard Vulcan.

Amanda beamed as Spock drew up beside Uhura. "Spock, your student's pronunciation is excellent. You should be very proud."

"Thank you," Uhura replied. "I'll just ... make myself scarce."

She watched Uhura take the cup of sugar, saw her fingers brush over Spock's and his Spock-smile at the brief contact. As a mother, and a mother of a socially introverted young man at that, Amanda longed to reel off a long barrage of questions. However, memories held her back. Memories of her own mother, forever nosing and nagging and going through her things. Memories of her early tentative courtship with Sarek, and the hideous event that was meeting his mother. Pragmatically, Amanda held her own counsel. It didn't take a genius to work out there was isomething/i going on, and doubtless Spock would tell her precisely what that was when the time was right.

The young woman made her way over to the kitchenette, head ducked in an attempt not to eavesdrop as she poured water into the caffetiere.

Spock turned his full attention to the screen and Amanda wished that the resolution were better. His expressions were fleeting and subtle enough without being further occluded by a fuzzy picture. "Good evening, mother," he said softly. "I have not heard from you in some time. Would you like Nyota and I to re-schedule?"

"No, not in the slightest. I'm afraid I have nothing incendiary to report, and I won't keep you too long." She smiled widely, settling forward in her seat. "I actually just wanted to let you know that your father will be on a diplomatic visit to Earth in two weeks. So, if it's alright, I'll come and see you."

His dark head ducked slightly. "Your company is always welcome, Mother, but Father will require your presence."

"And in any other corner of the universe he could have it. But I refuse to be on the same planet as you without dropping by. The dignitaries will have to live without me – I'm sure they'll cope."

Amanda couldn't be certain, not from her very poor vantage point, but she thought that Spock looked satisfied. "If you are certain Father will not mind, then I would be pleased to see you." Uhura was stirring her coffee behind Spock, spoon chinking against the porcelain. "And I would very much like to meet you in person, Miss Uhura. I used to love Xeno-linguistics myself, before I found my own research project to live with."

When she turned around, Uhura was grinning. "I'd like that. The dialect you and Spock use together is absolutely fascinating – the combination of Vulcan with Earth English slang? I could sit and listen to you with a data PADD for hours."

"I think that's a compliment," Amanda said, chuckling.

"It is," Spock confirmed.

She was used to his voice containing a steely spine of certainty, but there was something else to his tone. A familiarity she had never known him use in regard to anyone but her. It was rather bittersweet, in a way. "Well, I'll let you kids get on. And I'll send a transmission nearer to the time to let you know when I'll be arriving."

Spock nodded, "Please do. I look forward to seeing you."

"Goodnight then. Have a good evening, you two."

They both chorused 'goodnight', both smiling, though in entirely different ways. Spock leant forward and pressed the button to cut his end of the connection, removing Amanda's image from their screen. On any other occasion, Amanda would do the same. But curiosity got the better of her, and she paused for a moment, intrigued to see how her son would behave with this new friend without his mother's transmitted presence.

Spock turned to Uhura, so his back was to the screen. Uhura's smile was small but there. He held out an arm, gesturing back towards the couch, but Uhura moved towards him instead. Her small, dark hand rested on his jaw and she said something – though without the audio feed, Amanda had no idea what. Then Spock leant forward in what was presumably a kiss. Brief and perfunctory, no doubt, but more physical affection than she had ever seen him display for anybody. They walked together to the seating area, Uhura re-taking her original seat, and Spock perching on a stool as was his custom.

Leaning forwards, she pressed her thumb to the 'end trans' button, and stood to make herself some coffee.

*

Three hours later, Sarek found Amanda curled up on a recliner on the balcony, a data PADD in her lap. But her attention was focussed out over the desert vista before her, ignoring whatever information she had decided to peruse. He laid a hand on her head, as he did only when they were alone, and she turned to look at him and smiled. "You were a while," she said, raising her arm to touch her index and middle fingers to his in their customary gesture of affection.

It was easy, after so long, to peruse her mind, and Amanda seldom had any objections on the matter. What he felt – or rather, saw that ishe/i felt – surprised him. "You are concerned about Spock," he said, moving to sit beside her on the recliner. Sarek's eyes were entirely blank as he regarded his wife. "You have communicated with him this evening?"

Amanda nodded slowly. Her eyebrows were very slightly drawn together, and her mouth was not at all curved, which was highly unusual. "I think he's got a girlfriend," she replied.

"A human?" Sarek asked. Amanda nodded once more. A troubling prospect indeed, for more than one reason. Sarek took a few moments before responding. "Such a relationship is impossible, as you and Spock both know. You saw Spock expressing uncommon intimacy towards a human woman?" Again, Amanda nodded. "Then there can be only one logical conclusion: that Spock is intrigued by the ways of human interaction and, in an inappropriate display of curiosity, has sought to find out more."

"It's not impossible in the slightest," Amanda said, frowning at her husband in irritation. "Spock's half human, it was always a possibility that he would want to choose a partner himself. Like a human. Or like his father. I told you that arranged marriages were archaic nonsense thirty years ago. In fact, I'm pretty sure I made my feelings on the subject clear quite a long time before Spock was even a consideration. My opinions haven't changed."

Sarek's face was entirely impassive, the flat line of his mouth becoming neither sterner nor softer at Amanda's words. When he spoke, however, his voice was hard. "Were I to say something similar of human culture, you would greet me with a highly irrational, probably volatile response," he said, and he could see from the contrition on her face that Amanda knew he was right on this small point at least.

"Fine," she said, "I'll word it differently. Spock's biology is partially human and, therefore, subject to human needs. One human need is company, a social companion. A romantic companion."

"You suggest he requires a female for sexual intercourse?" Sarek asked, eyebrow slightly raised.

"No," she said quickly. "I said nothing of the kind, stop twisting my words." Her hand found his once more, fingertips stroking over his palm in a way she hoped would soften his resolve as well as demonstrate her point. "We need someone to be close to, with whom we can share ourselves. And we can't hang around for seven years, or until the next hormone surge to find that someone. And when that someone shows up, we can't ignore them in favour of the person that was picked out for us at birth. You should know that." Sarek nodded minutely. "And if you don't believe that of Vulcans as well as humans, then I don't know why you married me."

"As Ambassador to Earth, marriage to a human was logical," Sarek said, remembering clearly the day he had told Spock the same lie.

Unlike her son, Amanda saw right through him. She smiled widely. "There was nothing logical in learning to kiss like a human, then sneaking up on me during the Andorian Ambassadorial address in San Francisco. In fact, I remember you yourself remarking that it was incredibly illogical behaviour and you had no intention of repeating it." Once again proving that single declaration foolish, rash and – dare he even think it? – too logical, he leant forward to press his lips to hers in the way he knew she still found enjoyable, even after forty years of marriage.

Through the continuing contact of their hands and the added burst of telepathic contact the meeting of their lips provided, Sarek felt something still more troubling. "It is not Spock's existing engagement that truly concerns it."

She shrugged. "To be perfectly honest, it hadn't occurred to me. I always knew it was a bad idea." Rather than show any irritation or anger at his wife's words – which were emotional and probably an attempt to provoke him, as Amanda sometimes still liked to do – he channelled his energies into analysing her emotional frequencies and thought patterns. "It is Spock's choice of developing a relationship at all that concerns you."

She shrugged, sighing and attempting a smile. "Maybe it's a human thing. Maternal instinct, perhaps. I just hope he knows what he's getting himself into."

Blinking once, Sarek intertwined their fingers in an uncommonly intimate gesture. "You are concerned that Spock has reached the final stage of his childhood by considering taking a mate. And that he is replacing you in some way?"

"No," Amanda replied, with a frown and jut to her lower lip that was clearly an admission of guilt. "Not entirely."

Sarek shook his head slowly. "You must put such unfounded worries from your mind. I maintain that it is highly likely Spock is indulging either a base carnal instinct, highly ingrained in human males, or instead seeks to learn more in a highly developed social experiment." Amanda raised a critical eyebrow, but he ignored her, only conceding, "I will admit that he would be unlikely to grow close to anybody who did not hold a logical significance to him, but it is perfectly possible – indeed, likely – that there will be several such women for him. But Spock will only ever have one mother. It is highly illogical, even for you, to assume that matters could be otherwise."

For a man who professed to feel nothing, Sarek had astounding moments of empathetic clarity. With a watery smile, Amanda leant forward and embraced him in a way that he usually found distasteful. On this occasion, however, he put aside his own discomfort and wrapped his arms around his wife – if only for the sake of returning to a logical routine.


	12. August Again

_Disclaimer: Star Trek's not mine, neither is Charlotte Church (thank God) who sang the song._

_Author's Notes: Thanks to Darry for the beta and hubbie for the inspiration :P_

**August**

_You know you're twisting my mind_

_So I won't be responsible 'cause I'm really not logical_

Sunny and humid, with blue skies and the nearby rush of water. A perfect day for a protest. Uhura had seen to it that the trestle table was put up promptly at oh-nine-hundred hours. She had then covered it with a scarlet table cloth and bundles of leaflets. At the centre lay a data PADD and stylus, the black screen blank and waiting. Around the table, display boards had been put up, bearing old photographs of Alcatraz Island and its resident ancient prison. The pictures covered the building through the ages, from its construction to its use and eventual fall into dereliction. Some of them were well known from tourism brochures; others were snaps that had been donated by local families, the paper browning at the corners.

Organised as ever, Uhura had devised a rota for manning the booth. She and Gaila took the first and last shift of the day, so that they could set up and put away the display. Their shift was slow. Saturday mornings on the street before the main Academy Residential building were not busy. Some mothers on their way to the grocery store, joggers on their standard route, but hardly any Cadets.

By the time they returned to relieve Cadets Trent and Chekov, however, the PADD was looking satisfyingly full. "How did we do, Pavel?" Uhura asked, sliding her thumb along the scroll bar to the right of the petition.

"Three hundred and thirty-sewen signatures," Chekov said, in the heavy accent Uhura had been trying to teach him to moderate. "Eempressive, I theenk, for one day."

Uhura hummed softly, a small frown forming between her brows. "We need at least three-fifty before the Council will even accept it as a valid petition, let alone take it seriously."

"Then we're almost there," Trent grinned. "And it's been getting better all afternoon. Shame you can't carry on into the evening, you'd catch all the bar flies."

"Council would only give me a public display license until seventeen-hundred hours." Uhura smiled wryly. "Besides, I don't think it's ethical to take signatures from people under the influence."

"Nor is it ethical to destroy a national landmark," Chekov noted with a self-righteous tilt to his head.

Gaila rolled her eyes. "Preaching to the choir, we know the spiel."

"Thanks, guys," Uhura said, carefully interrupting her roommate. Gaila might still be sour that Chekov was a member of the ten per cent of men unaffected by her charms, but that was no excuse to be rude. "We really appreciate your help."

"See you tonight?" Trent asked, looking hopefully at Gaila. Trent was not one of the ten per cent.

"You bet your boots!" As soon as the two men had started to make their way back up the path towards the Academy building, Gaila tugged her red Cadet's sweater over her head. Beneath was a distinctly non-regulation T-shirt, cut short and tight. In large black capitals across her breasts were written the words, "SAVE ALCATRAZ".

Uhura rolled her eyes. "Have I mentioned yet that I don't approve of your methods?"

She grinned widely, arms behind her back to thrust her chest forwards. "I'm just an attention getter. I knock them out, and you bore them into signing with the facts. We're a team."

A slow half hour went by. Gaila had attracted some frat boys into signing, and Uhura had used her more female-friendly charms to persuade some engineering girls into joining the petition. But they were still barely over the three-fifty requirement, and well below a number that would make the Council take them seriously.

"It's a shame we couldn't get any of the faculty to sign. Well, no one high up and no one in the Science Department, anyway."

Gaila nodded, leaning her hip against the table as she looked about for another group of boys to assault with her T-shirt. "I know. I'm like a pariah. Everyone in Xeno-biology thinks I'm nuts."

"I never did ask why you took such an interest," Uhura said, smiling at her friend.

Gaila shrugged vivid green shoulders. "Have you ever been there? It's an awesome place. I wouldn't want to replace that with somewhere I have to listen to Spock drone on about photosynthesising sentient organisms."

Uhura's dark eyes widened, a broad smile stretching her lips. "Spock!"

Her Orion friend groaned. "Shit, I flicked your happy switch, didn't I?"

Rolling her eyes, Uhura nodded her head towards the end of the street. Distantly she made out a tall, slender figure with painfully upright posture and distinctly pointed ears, silhouetted against the blue sky. "He'll sign – and he's on the Sciences faculty, it'll look really good."

Deep red eyebrows drew together in a frown. "Uhura, honey, are you sure that's a good idea?"

But Gaila's reservations were too little and too late. Uhura had already snatched up the data PADD and a leaflet, before marching up the street to meet the Vulcan Commander.

She fell into step easily beside him, as he inclined his head and murmured, "Good afternoon, Nyota."

"Good afternoon," she replied. Holding out one hand, she offered him the brightly coloured flier she had written and designed herself. It was rare to see or use paper these days, but Uhura had decided it gave the whole affair a retro flavour that fitted perfectly with the theme of their protest. "Can I offer you some literature on the demolition of Alcatraz Prison?" she asked sweetly.

"Thank you, but no," he replied in an even tone. "I am aware of the plans for the island."

"Good," Uhura smiled, easily switching the flier and PADD between her hands in a gesture that spoke of years of multi-tasking. "Then would you sign our petition? We already have enough signatures to bring before the San Francisco Planning Board, and hopefully some faculty names will help them to take our case seriously."

They had reached the booth. Gaila tried to pretend that she wasn't there. Uhura wasn't the only one who could read expressions, and she'd seen that challenge in Spock's eyes way too many times in class to get involved. With a raised eyebrow, Spock halted and turned to face Uhura. "Thank you, but I must decline. There would be no logic in signing a petition to counteract the vote of favour I very recently made." He paused, glancing over the photographs they had displayed with a critical eye. "Xeno- and Earth-biology archives are already exceeding the space offered within the current Sciences Block, and recent new discoveries in the Laurentian System have made it necessary to provide students with laboratories equipped to the highest standards. This is simply not possible in the current space. As a Cadet, I would expect you to understand the need to make the Academy's facilities as attractive to bright young minds as possible." Uhura watched a muscle twitch in his jaw as he looked away from her to the building behind her. "But then, the Communications and Sub-Space Transmissions Department never seems to be short of funds nor support. Perhaps you cannot conceive of the needs of other schools within the Academy?"

She breathed once, twice, trying very hard to formulate a response that wouldn't involve yelling. With a raised eyebrow and a hand rising up to her hip the only external indicators of her internal frustration, she responded as levelly as she could. "I understand that the Sciences are sometimes over-looked. But there are derelicts you could take over on the mainland, and the archives could easily be transferred to the Washington Base."

"Where none of our students can access the original manuscripts or specimens? That hardly seems logical, Cadet. Furthermore, the island provides a singular opportunity to observe and experiment on marine life in its natural habitat, as well as providing a research base sufficiently far enough from the city that potentially hazardous activities may be carried out."

She shook her head, long ponytail swaying gently behind her. "I would have thought you of all people would _care_ about knocking down a historical landmark. Vulcan culture is all about tradition and preservation."

Spock glanced across at the island in question, with a critical raised eyebrow. "Your prison is not yet as old as my parents' nearest temple on Vulcan. Which, in turn, is dwarfed in age by the city temples. Which, again, are only approximately half as old as our holiest places of worship."

Uhura was very aware of the space in between them. For the last month, they had grown comfortable in each other's presence. Not just in presence, but within each other's personal space. She had steadily moved physically and, she liked to think, emotionally closer to Spock – and he had let her. Yet here they stood, two feet apart, body language direct and confrontational. She wanted to do something to stop it, but her temper was too frayed, her pride too bruised to do anything but argue back. "How can you expect us to grow, as a species, to have a tradition like Vulcan if we demolish the old in favour of the new?"

His expression seemed to soften somewhat and, for a brief moment, Uhura thought that she had won. "A crumbling prison is hardly a facet of Earth's culture that it should wish to preserve, Nyota."

Swallowing, she shook her head, and put down the data PADD in defeat. Gaila had mysteriously, if somewhat conveniently, disappeared to tempt some giddy-looking new recruits. When she wasn't looking, Spock's fingers ran over the back of her hand as it rested on the data PADD. "You cannot expect me to agree with you every time," he said softly.

Uhura was proud of herself for not snatching away her hand, as she might have done had this been anyone but Spock. "But I know I'm right," she said.

Looking up into his face, she saw a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I am sure you think so."

"You're really infuriating, you know that?"

The eyebrow again, just a quick flick this time, and Spock removed his hand from hers. He glanced about, but there was no one watching them. "I wish you luck in your endeavour. But, I fear it is an illogical exercise."

She didn't say goodbye, and neither did he. Uhura was grateful that Gaila gave her five minutes to patch up her pride before returning to the booth with three boys, willing and eager to sign.

*

As if by magic, McCoy had appeared at just the right time to help them carry the display units back to the board room. Uhura was still quiet and sullen, despite the banter of her friends. "You know you're being petty, right?" Gaila said, with a sidelong glance to McCoy. He didn't share her smile, but kept studiously out of the way.

"It's not petty."

"Is so," Gaila retorted.

"Now _that's_ petty," McCoy interjected. Gaila stuck out her bright pink tongue at him.

"It's not petty to expect someone I respect to understand my point of view."

Gaila chuckled. "He understands, honey, he just doesn't agree."

She sighed in frustration, hitching the display board up on her hip. "But I'm _right_."

Giggling, Gaila lowered her voice to a lower, flatter register. "I'm sure you _think_ you are."

"Um, who are we talking about?" McCoy interrupted, frowning as he glanced between the two women.

"No one," they responded in unison. They remained silent for a moment, before Gaila muttered, "This is why I don't do monogamy."

McCoy snorted indelicately. "You don't do monogamy because it's not part of your genetic make up. Also, I hate to break this to you, but coming back to _my_ room and boning _my_ room mate and nobody else for a month? That's monogamy."

"Dear, sweet Leonard," Gaila said, fluttering her eyelashes at him and shifting closer so their arms bumped as they walked. "Jim _is_ getting a little stale. Perhaps I should spread my net a little wider?"

"Uhura, can you make her stop that?"

She glanced over her shoulder and saw that, while McCoy's hands were entirely full, Gaila had one free and was walking quite determinedly with her hand in the doctor's back pocket. "Love to, but unfortunately I'm being _irrational_ today."

The pair behind her rolled their eyes, and the rest of the journey was made in silence -- apart from the odd admonition from McCoy as Gaila's hands strayed. Once the display boards were away, the girls said goodbye to McCoy and returned to their room. Uhura knew better than to try and bring up her conversation with Spock again. It was entirely possible that everyone else was right and she was wrong, and she _was_ being petty. But she had always thought of Spock as an ally. Not because he was her ... whatever he was, but because they thought along similar lines. Logical lines. It was far too easy to forget that they were, for the most part, a different species with very different backgrounds.

As Uhura punched the code to open their bedroom door, Gaila slipped her arms around her best friend's waist, and rested her chin upon her shoulder. "Stop brooding. When you frown you're creating wrinkles of the future, and then not even stuffy Vulcans will want to screw you."

The door opened and they walked into the room, Gaila's arm still loosely holding Uhura's waist. "He doesn't screw me anyway." She tried not to sound bitter, but wasn't sure that she succeeded.

"Then I don't know why you bother."

This, at least, raised a smile. Not only because of Gaila's habit of placing sex above and beyond all else, but because it forced Uhura to ask herself why she _did_ bother. And there were a lot of reasons. And they were all very good ones.

"Lights," Uhura commanded, and the overhead fluorescents flickered into life. The computer, similarly, registered their presence and coolly announced, "Five messages for Cadet N Uhura."

Uhura frowned, glancing at her friend. "Clearly Commander Spock thought he had to call that many times to grovel."

"He's not the grovelling type," Uhura said, thereby producing the understatement of the year. "Computer, play messages."

The first two where just brief dead air before the line was disconnected. The third message was her youngest sister, Winda. "Nyo? You need to call home as soon as you get this, OK? I'm at home, just ... call me." The fourth message was more dead air. The fifth was her sister again, "Nyo, it's me again. I don't know where you are, but I really really need to get hold of you. You have to call home right now. If I don't hear from you by six I'm calling the Academy."

She glanced sidelong at the clock, and caught Gaila's concerned expression. Seventeen-fifty. Moving to the computer console, she quickly tapped out a speed dial to her parents' home. The line was accepted almost as soon as the request was received, and her sister's familiar face appeared on the screen. Her eyes looked puffy, the whites slightly red from tears. "What's wrong?" Uhura asked immediately.

"It's Momma. Look, don't freak out, but she's been in an accident."

"She what?" Uhura interrupted, sinking to the bed.

"A motor accident. She's in ICU. Nyo, can you come home?"

She swallowed heavily, eyes completely dry, too shocked to cry. Helplessly, Uhura looked up at her best friend, who was there immediately, a warm hand tight on her shoulder. Gaila leaned forward towards the screen, saying, "She'll be on the next shuttle. Tell your Mom get better from me, OK?"

Winda nodded mutely, and Gaila discontinued the transmission. The room was eerily silent. Uhura stared at the blank screen where her sister had been.

Eventually she whispered, "I can't go home. I have classes on Monday."

"No you don't, because you're going home and classes can hang." Gaila took her hand firmly. "Come on. We're going to see Admiral Barrett."

*

Spock waited until nineteen hundred hours. He had a great desire to speak to Nyota, despite the fact they had conversed only that afternoon. Were he to be entirely honest with himself, he would have to admit that it was an emotional compulsion, one that was difficult to label. He did not need contact with her because he was anxious or guilty – he had no logical reason to be either – but something unpleasant and unfamiliar had filled his mind's glass cube with a dark, muddy green. Instinct, the human phenomena that he considered himself fortunate to possess, told him that speaking to Nyota would relieve this unpleasant feeling.

He flicked through the student list on his console, and came almost to the end before he found, "Uhura, N". Pressing his thumb to the small, yellow type opened an automatic channel to her room. After twelve seconds, the transmission was accepted. But, when the black square containing the audio-visual feed finally flickered into life, only an abnormally solemn Cadet Gaila sat on the bed facing the camera.

"Good evening, Cadet," Spock said, his voice as impassive as ever. "I had hoped to speak to Cadet Uhura."

"You just missed her," she replied, voice slightly distorted by the poor internal comms system.

"At what time is she expected to return?"

"No, sir, you don't understand. She's left the Base. She had to go home."

Concern and fear twisted alongside the mud-green, all pushing for recognition. His eyebrows drew together in an expression even his Orion student could see was bordering on emotional. "Is she unwell?"

Gaila shook her head slightly. "Not her. Her mother. She got run off the road by an impulse plasma truck. Admiral Barrett gave Uhura permission to go home early-"

"May I have a contact frequency for Nyota at her home?" Spock interrupted.

She crooked a vivid red eyebrow. "You can find that on her records, iCommander/i."

Working hard to keep his breathing steady and regulated, to show no external signs of the whirling mass that had taken up residence inside his repressed emotional centre, he replied, "Under the circumstances, I would prefer to obtain them from her friend than from her personal record."

He saw Gaila shrug, and reach forward to tap something into the console immediately beneath the camera that fed her image to Spock's screen. He barely heard her mutter, "No harm in passing her digits on to her boyfriend, I guess." Spock was about to argue the term, but before he could do so Gaila looked directly into the camera and caught his eye. She slumped slightly, her face falling from its mask of cool efficiency into a more worried expression. "Permission to speak freely, Sir?"

With an arched eyebrow, Spock replied, "I was under the impression you _were_ speaking freely."

A brief smile in reaction, before her mouth returned to its worried golden line. "Look, don't call straight away, OK?" She sighed. "I know you're my Commander, and I shouldn't order you about. But as her friend, just trust me. The prognosis wasn't good and I think she'll just want to be with her family and not think about the Academy. She was really upset when I left her."

Spock nodded slowly. It was odd, he thought fleetingly, how pity and sympathy were looked down upon by the Vulcan race, but empathy was so integral to their make up. Distantly, Spock felt the remnants of Nyota's mind, mostly memories of her feelings pressed against his, but also a faint connection to the muted colours that must have been pulsing through her system. "What was the prognosis?"

She shrugged again, running a hand over her face and pushing her hair back from her face. "Not good. I think her sister wanted to get Uhura home before it's too late."

"Thank you for the contact details, Cadet. I shall bid you good night."

Gaila was already leaning forward to cut the connection. "Good night, Commander."

Spock sat at his console for some minutes, staring at the blank transmission feed and the communications code for Nyota's home. It was tempting to dial now, to make sure that Nyota was in a reasonable emotional state and to offer whatever empathy he could. But the practical, rational, Vulcan side – which was, generally speaking, dominant – told him very plainly that his forced presence would be a burden. In emotional matters, it was wise to adhere to the advice of her friend, who seemed to understand human emotional needs far better than he. Furthermore, if Nyota felt that she needed him for any kind of support, she would contact him.

Standing, Spock moved to the centre of the room, pulling off his regulation tunic and folding it neatly on the back of the couch. He sat on the floor and crossed his legs, back straight without arching, head slightly bowed. His hands lay palm-upwards on his knees. He breathed deeply through his nose, and worked through the mental disciplines that placed him into a meditative trance. With little difficulty, he drew together the threads of Nyota's subconscious that lay dormant in his own mind. He gathered them and arranged them and made them the focus of his attention. There was little sense in meditating on Nyota's mother – all life forms lived and died, it was a cycle that could not be broken. But Spock concentrated his efforts on supporting Nyota's mind, giving her strength and fortitude. Vulcans are not used to being useless, and it was the only practical help that Spock could conceive.


	13. Spetember

_Disclaimer: Star Trek's not mine, and neither are the lyrics, which are from "Go Now" by Moody Blues._

_Author's Notes: Many thanks to Dave and Darry for the beta job._

**September**

"_We've already said goodbye_

_Since you've got to go, oh you'd better go now"_

In the way of most diplomatic events, there were delays. A sudden break in ceasefire on the Neutral Zone border meant that Ambassador Sarek's attentions – as well as most of Starfleet's – were required elsewhere. This delay meant that the re-scheduled visit would fall into a period of 'illness' for one of the more important members of the Ambassadorial party. Spock had been made privy to the knowledge that Sylok would be celebrating his fifty-sixth birthday, and all the distasteful implications that went there-with – but of course, this was not mentioned to any humans. Following this, there was an epidemic scare in Perth, where the reception was due to take place, and arrangements had to be changed so the party would be accommodated instead in Auckland. All in all, it was two months, rather than two weeks, before Spock actually laid eyes on his mother.

He had, as humans would put it, made an effort. There were no regulations that required him to wear his Starfleet uniform during the two week summer break, but he generally did anyway. Most of Spock's clothes were Vulcan, and he preferred not to mark himself out as different. While San Francisco might be host to a number of extra-terrestrial species and far more accepting of new cultures, both human and alien, than many other regions of Earth. A year ago, however, his mother had very pointedly sent him a parcel containing a pair of jeans. They had never been worn and, as such, never been washed and the blue dye was still quite vivid. The Academy intranet had provided a shirt, reasonably priced and expediently delivered.

It was in these strange, alien clothes that Spock waited in the foyer of the Ramada Hotel, awaiting his mother's arrival. To the best of his knowledge, she had already checked in, should have done so by midday. They had arranged that Spock would allow her an hour to settle into her accommodation, before he would come to collect her. He had stepped through the glass doors promptly at thirteen-hundred hours, and had stood in the large, gleaming reception area for nine minutes. She was late.

To add to his discomfort, the denim was too stiff for his liking, and hugged too tightly around the hips. His shirt, at least, was crisp and cool, reminding him of the garments worn on Vulcan. It was strange, but in these clothes, designed to help him blend in with the human population, he felt more conspicuous than ever. He found himself ducking his head slightly, avoiding eye contact with the staff and guests, pacing uneasily across the marble floors.

"Spock?"

He turned his head toward the sound of her voice, achingly familiar. Lips twitching into a not-quite-smile, he walked briskly towards her. As was Amanda's custom, she opened her arms to embrace him. He brought his own hands to the small of her back, squeezing gently. It had once suffused his emotional centre with sea-green embarrassment, this unnecessarily bold gesture of affection. On Earth such things were done all the time. On Earth, it felt almost normal, and he allowed himself to enjoy it.

Pulling away after four seconds of contact, Spock asked, "Was your journey satisfactory?"

She smiled and nodded, "It was fine. A bit too long and a bit too cramped – but I never liked those shuttle things. Small and loud and smelly." She took a deep breath, forcing a smile onto her face. "It's nice to be planet-side." Taking her son's arm, she steered them towards the exit. "Take me to the Academy," she muttered under her breath while glancing around at the crowded foyer. "Or to somewhere down-town. I'm going to be stuck in stuffy receptions all the way back to Vulcan, I could do with being in the real world for a while."

Sweet strawberry red gases danced through his glass cube, and Spock felt his fingers tighten around his mother's arm. It had been an odd two weeks, waiting for definite dates from his mother and for news from Nyota. Both had given firm eventualities on the same day – his mother would arrive today, and Nyota would stay in US Africa until the end of the break to be with her family during their time of bereavement.

"You look very nice," his mother said, and Spock glanced at her forcing his thoughts to the present.

"I am glad you approve, but these clothes are proving to be very uncomfortable."

"You're not used to them," Amanda said, leaning her head back and breathing deeply as they stepped out into the fresh air. "You should wear them when you go out with Miss Uhura," she said, eyes closed but her mouth curved slightly at the corners in an expression of mischief. "If you go out with her, I mean."

"Our meetings are conducted in my rooms. We sometimes pass each other during the course of the day, but for the most part she remains in or near the Communications Block, and I am in an entirely separate part of the Academy."

He watched his mother from the corner of his eye. Spock thought he saw her amusement grow, but the expression was quickly suppressed. His mother, too, had learned to fit in on Vulcan.

"Is the Mess Hall satisfactory, or would you prefer somewhere more formal?" he asked.

She chuckled softly. "'Formal' is precisely what I'm avoiding. The Mess Hall would be just fine, if you're not too embarrassed to be seen with your mother."

Spock shook his head slowly, turning them towards the Bay. "Not at all." He took a step away, and Amanda loosened her grip so Spock could walk with his hands behind his back. The cut of his pants were impeding his normal stride but, he supposed, this allowed his mother to keep up with him more easily. In nine years, he had grown accustomed to setting his own pace.

"Will Miss Uhura be there?"

His right eyebrow rising slightly, in a manner so similar to his father's, Spock's tone was perfectly even as he said, "You have an uncanny interest in Cadet Uhura. May I ask why?"

Amanda grinned and looked down at the sidewalk, shrugging. "I don't know. I've seen her in your room twice. I never saw your room-mate ithat/i often, and you were living with him. She seems nice, and I thought ... perhaps ... that she was a very good friend of yours?"

Blues and reds twirled together as Spock's lips quirked once more. "Your implications that we are romantically involved are deeply inappropriate, mother. And not very subtle."

"'Romantic'? That's an interesting choice of word. Very ihuman/i. And I noticed you don't deny anything."

Spock could feel his pointed eyes flushing, and looked straight ahead towards the Academy monument, just discernable beyond the rooftops of squat stores and stalls. "I have no comment on the matter."

His mother sighed, shaking her graying head. "You're cruel to your mother, Spock. Fine, if you won't crack I'll just have to work on her."

His step faltered slightly, greens overpowering the more pleasant emotions of only a moment before. "That will not be possible. Nyota will be absent from the Academy until she has finished her bereavement rituals."

Amanda frowned. "Bereavement?"

"Her mother recently died."

Amanda stopped immediately and laid a hand on her son's shoulder. "Oh Spock, I'm so sorry."

His head tilted slightly to the right as he regarded his mother. "Apology is not necessary, Mother. Indeed, it is a highly illogical reaction."

Shaking off his Vulcan logic, Amanda continued, "Please pass my sympathies on to Uhura and her family. I know we don't really know each other very well, but I know you and I know you're closer to her than you're telling. Could you sign my name to your condolence message?"

"Condolence message?" Spock repeated.

She stared hard at Spock as they walked across the quad. "Spock, please tell me you're intending to send a formal transmission of condolence? Or a transmission of any kind?"

Spock held open the door to the main building, stepping aside to allow her to pass. Following her, he led the way to the left, towards the Mess Hall. "I was advised that this was a time for Nyota to be with her family. I cannot claim to truly understand the grieving rituals of humans. It is highly illogical, to believe that the dead pass to a higher plane of existence, and yet to also mourn the loss of them. It was my intention to wait for Nyota's return and to judge from her behaviour what course of action was most advisable."

The corridors of the Academy were largely deserted, so Spock did not argue when his mother failed to moderate the volume of her voice. "Spock, you really are as hopeless as your father!"

"I am assuming you refer to an emotional deficiency."

"No, an empathic one. Which is really unforgivable in a species that boasts telepathy. In here?" Spock nodded, and they entered the mess. Amanda took a seat immediately, gesturing for Spock to sit opposite. "She cares for you. A lot." It was a statement rather than a question, and not one that Amanda was going to give her son enough time to query. "As an empathic Vulcan, and as an emotional human, you should know that bereavement is for the living, not the dead."

"You imply an act of self-pity?" Spock asked flatly.

Amanda made that familiar huff of frustration, which had been so common when he was small. "It's not self-pitying to miss someone you love; when you know they can't come back." His mother gripped his hands, fingers pressing firmly against the flesh of his palm. She was pressing her mind to his in a practiced gesture, learned from years of living with Vulcan men who couldn't or wouldn't understand her. He felt Amanda's pain at the loss of her own mother, the piercing pale green sorrow and bleak brown emptiness that thinking of her still evoked.

"This is what Nyota feels?" he asked, trying to gather the traces of her mind, as he had done every night during meditation. She was, perhaps, too far away, or it had been too long since he had touched her. He had felt nothing like this from her mental remnants.

"Her pain is more recent, more intense." Amanda shook her head slightly, and Spock felt the soft blues of her love for him. "It's only a gesture and it doesn't do any practical good – which I know you don't understand – but I strongly advise that if you want to help, you send her a transmission with your sympathies."

"I do not feel sympathy," Spock said, but he knew he was arguing semantics.

"'Sympathy' as a figure of speech rather than an abstract noun, Spock. Send a message of condolence. It will help her."

*

Even his mother's visit would not change Spock's routine meditation. She had not seemed offended when he asked her to leave him alone for three hours, but had said she would amuse herself on the computer, possibly raise a communication with his father.

Emerging from the bedroom, pulling the uniform black under-shirt over his head, he saw her sitting at the console. Running a hand over his head to ensure his hair retained its regular shape, he glanced over her shoulder. "You are writing?" he said

"I'm writing to Miss Uhura," she said without looking up. Her fingers continued to work at the touch-sensitive keyboard, her movements fast and assured.

His head tilted to the side. "That is an out-moded form of communication. I can set up a recorded transmission if you would prefer."

Amanda looked over her shoulder at him. One eyebrow was raised and her lips were slightly quirked, though her eyes were narrowed insinuating that her expression was not entirely positive. "Thank you, Spock. I know how to set up a recorded transmission. I used to set them up for you when you were a toddler, you may recall." She shook her head slightly, fingers moving over the console keyboard once more. "There's something more caring about a written message. Recordings are quick and cheap. People say whatever floats into their head. But writing a really good letter requires intelligence and forethought. Your Miss Uhura strikes me as the kind of woman who would appreciate the effort."

Spock nodded slowly, moving away so his mother would not think he was reading over her shoulder. Amanda valued privacy as much as any Vulcan. "An intriguing thought. Please let me know if she replies."

Though her back was turned to him, Spock could hear the smile in her voice. "I will."

*

It had been a long hard day filled with too many people and not enough silence. Uhura took a deep breath, smoothing down her knee-length black skirt as she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Even though her skin had darkened to its furthest extreme in the San Francisco summer, she could still make out the faint, blue rings beneath her puffy eyes. Even to her own eyes, her face looked thin. Or perhaps it was only because she wasn't smiling, hadn't smiled in sixteen days. She ran fingers through the thin, traditional braids Winda had painstakingly plaited the previous night. They made her hair feel thick and heavy – just the way she felt inside. A deep breath. Breathing was one of the harder things to remember to do. As a linguist, and a Xeno-linguist at that, she knew that breathing was everything in speech. And yet, as she spoke to relatives she'd forgotten she even had, and let them clutch her hands, she felt the air rushing out of her and had to consciously remember to suck more back in.

Too morose, Uhura. Pull it together.

Another deep breath, and she hitched up The Face. It wasn't the forced smile she often used at the Academy. Such an expression would be deeply inappropriate, and at the moment she was incapable of even a false smile. But her eyebrows rose into a look of polite interest. Her mouth hardened into a flat line, instead of drooping at the corners.

She looked like Spock. The thought would be amusing if the circumstances weren't so painful.

Twisting the door handle, she exited the safe haven of the bathroom. To be fair, most of the attendants had left. Only family – true family – remained. Her sisters, their partners and husbands, some children left dozing on the sofa or playing out in the yard. Winda took her hand almost immediately. "You OK? You were in there a while."

"I'm fine," Uhura replied, like she had at least twenty times a day since she arrived. Because Winda was her little sister, and she had to be fine for her. "Have they all gone now?"

"Finally," she said, voicing the opinion they both held but Uhura was too polite to say. "And Chanika and Dasini are taking their entourage back to the hotel."

"Just you and me, then." Uhura tried, she really did, to raise a smile for her sister. She thought she probably managed a grimace, but Winda didn't seem to be complaining.

"Do you mind if I just hide in my room tonight?" Winda had a way, which Uhura had always admired, of straight-forwardly asking for whatever she wanted. She supposed it was to do with being the youngest, and maybe a little bit spoiled. But thinking about that brought up memories of Winda's ninth birthday party, when Momma had bought her a scooter, and Uhura had never been allowed a scooter until she saved up to buy one herself. The memory of her face when Winda bounced up and down beside the extravagant gift was too much.

Breathe. Breathe again.

"Of course not."

"I'm not going to be crying or slitting my wrists or anything. I just ... there were a lot of people today."

"I'll second that," Uhura replied.

They stood together on the deck and waved as the two cars disappeared around the corner. Uhura sighed and dropped her arm, finally relaxing if only for a moment. She turned to Winda – shorter than Nyota, and prettier she supposed, with her short scruffy hair and fuck-the-world attitude. They had never been an overly affectionate family, but Uhura hugged her sister all the same. "I'll say good night now," she said, thinking how strange it was to spend so long together speaking her native Swahili.

"Night night, Nyo."

Utterly alone at last, Uhura steeled herself. There was one last duty that had to be performed, before she could lie on her bed and be as miserable as she wanted. She flicked the computer console on and waited for it to boot up.

Condolence after condolence, what should have been a comfort instead came across as a burden. Friends of her mother's, old colleagues, old lovers probably – it was amazing the kind of people that crawled out of the woodwork when people died. One day she would go back to these people, eager to learn more about the mother she had lost. But not just yet.

One message was from Gaila, as bubbly as the others had been. It was a small salve, and she saved it to watch again tomorrow when she would, hopefully, be in a better mood. Perhaps Winda would like it. She had a feeling the two shared a similar sense of humour.

And two messages from Spock. Sixteen days without a word, then two messages all at once. Apparently, Vulcans were like public shuttles.

She pressed her thumb to the AV-transmission, and sat back as a box grew and Spock's grainy image burst into life.

"Good evening, Nyota." He paused a long time. Spock didn't know what to say. That must be a first. "I had intended to offer you my support, but now that it comes to making such an offer it seems highly illogical. You wish for your mother back, and I cannot provide that. I have been ... I believe the human vernacular is 'praying' for you. Though, it is really more a means of supporting your mental capacities to help cope with overly stressful or emotional situations. It is the first time I have attempted such a thing, so I am unsure as to my success."

He paused again. Uhura noticed she had shifted forwards, leaning in towards the screen.

"It is very ... odd, going so long without your presence. You seem to have become part of my routine, and your absence has disturbed the equilibrium of my day." Any other woman might have been offended and turned the transmission off, blocking the feed from Spock's coordinates in case he send anything similarly untactful. Uhura, however, came the closest she had to smiling since that sunny Saturday afternoon when her biggest problem had been Spock disagreeing with her. Not many women would recognise that this was Spock's way of saying he missed her. "I look forward to your return with something approaching an emotion."

"Approaching," Uhura snorted under her breath. "Yeah, you miss me bad."

"I will allow you to return to your family." Spock leant forward, then paused. "Additionally – and I understand that this may seem untactful, but it is right to inform you – my mother is in San Francisco and expressed a desire to send you a letter of condolence. I allowed her to do so, but if it will upset you, please do not open the second communication file from these co-ordinates." He nodded slightly. "Good night, Nyota."

"Good night, Spock," she murmured as he leaned outside of the camera's field before vanishing into dead airspace.

"From one of your friends?" Winda said softly behind her.

Uhura bolted upright, turning in her seat to see her sister leaning against the doorframe, dressed in an over-sized T-shirt and sweat pants. "I thought you wanted to be alone?" Winda shrugged narrow shoulders, and crossed her arms across her stomach, slouching towards her sister. "Yes, he's a friend. Sort of."

The transmission had looped to a still frame of the beginning. Spock's image sat perfectly passive in his straight-backed chair, uniform perfectly pressed, hair perfectly flat. "He's cute," Winda decided, leaning over Uhura's shoulder. "If a bit grumpy-looking."

"He's half-Vulcan, and he doesn't exactly embrace his human side."

Winda ran her thumb over the console, flicking through the messages, presumably checking for anything from her own friends. "He sent you two messages?" she asked.

Uhura shook her head slightly. "The second one's from his mother."

"His imother/i?" Winda looked sharply at her older sister. "You been holding out on me?" Uhura realised that something must have flickered over her face – some pre-emptive expression of denial, or maybe and involuntary quirk of the lips or eyebrows – because all at once Winda was wearing that same brilliant smile that she'd had when they were teenagers sharing a room giggling over the boys they liked at school. It was the only time they looked alike, when they smiled, and Uhura felt her own lips quirk upwards. "I want to know everything," Winda announced.

Uhura sighed, trying to be the grown up. "Da, this subject is rather petty for a time like this, don't you think?"

"I think that something this happy is the ionly/i thing to discuss after the day we've had."

Uhura sighed. As a older and rather competitive sister, she always found it difficult to admit when the baby of the family was right – which was a pain, because lately it seemed to happen more and more often. "OK, grab some of those left-over brownies and head to my room, and I'll paint your nails and you can ask anything you like."

Winda smiled. The pain certainly hadn't gone but was, at least, temporarily hidden. The youngest Uhura sister stood and headed for the kitchen. Nyota turned to the console one more time before shutting down in order to transfer the two files from Spock to her data PADD. She would review them later, when she was alone. Then she followed her sister to their old bedroom.

*

iDear Nyota,

I hope you don't mind me calling you that. I've listened to Spock calling you 'Nyota' all day, and I'd feel a bit foolish sticking to the formality of 'Miss Uhura'.

Perhaps this isn't the best time for me to establish a correspondence between us. But I, too, lost my mother when I was very young, and I remember how difficult it can be dealing with other people's pity graciously – especially from a stranger. However, please understand that I have lived with Vulcans for the greater part of my adult life, and I send this to you with Vulcan empathy and human understanding. I will not offer the commonplace epithets – your mother has gone to a better place, her pain has ended – because you will hear them from plenty of people who will say them with a lot more sincerity than I could muster.

As I explained to my son only this afternoon, bereavement and the grieving process are for the living, not the dead. So my only assurance to you will be that the memories of your mother will not fade away, as you fear. They get stronger and brighter the more you recall them. It is difficult, but make the most of your family while you have them together, and remember your mother to each other. Talk to Spock about her when you return, because I know he will be interested, although he may not express it in the normal human way. I would love to hear more about her myself, when and if you feel ready to reply (I have included my communication number on Vulcan, in the event that you want to write back when I have returned home.)

I was so sorry to hear that I wouldn't be able to meet you on this visit. It took some prompting, but now Spock has gotten over his initial shyness (don't be fooled, Spock gets shy like any boy in love) he talks about you with a very high regard. What with his not being one to exaggerate, I think you must be quite an extraordinary young woman.

This is becoming overly long, and I have no desire to burden you at such a time. In the way of our race, please accept my heart-felt condolences to you and all your family. I very much hope that I will hear from you in the future.

Sincerely,

Amanda Grayson/i


	14. September Continued

_Disclaimer: Star Trek's not mine. Neither are the lyrics, which are taken from "The Chemicals Between Us" by Bush._

_Author's Notes: Many thanks to Darry for the beta. This brings us to the point I've been envisioning since I wrote the first word of this fic._

**September Continued**

Gaila was, for once, stretched out on the bed studying. She was still half naked because, given the chance, she would spend every minute of every day in her underwear. Having grown up sharing a house with four sisters, it wasn't something that bothered Uhura.

"You're here – and alone!" Uhura exclaimed, dumping her bag on the floor and flopping onto her own mattress. "And ... studying? Gaila, is everything alright?"

"You buried your mother three days ago, and _you_ ask _me_ if _I'm_ alright?" The smile that greeted her was tense and false. Spending so much time with Spock had taught Uhura to study people's faces as closely as their words and intonation. She didn't respond, just stared at Gaila and waited for her to spit it out. Eventually, she cracked. "Jim had sex with that blonde girl in your Advanced Klingon class."

Uhura blinked. "Oh. That bothers you? I thought you guys didn't believe in monogamy?"

"We don't. But we kind of ended up there anyway. I mean, we keep up with each other pretty well and neither of us were getting bored enough to look else where. At least, I didn't think we were."

"So this is 'hurt pride' sulking not 'broken heart' misery, right?" Uhura asked with a small smile.

"Pretty much. And I'm horny as hell with no one to turn to – not that I'll get any sympathy from you on _that_ front." Gaila smirked and rolled onto her side, fluttering fiery red eyelashes at her friend. "Come out with me tonight? Men trust me more if you're there."

"No, men think there's a chance of a _threesome_ if I'm there. Besides, I have plans," she announced with a small, secret smile.

Uhura could smile her secret smiles all she wanted, but Gaila could tell with one deep inhale of her rising pheromone levels what her best friend was intending. She gasped, eyes rounding in delight and surprise. "You're going to jump Commander Spock? Wow, weird timing."

For a tenth of a second, Uhura considered denying everything. Or at least refusing to comment. But she's going to want someone with whom to obsess over the whole experience, and Gaila will only smell it on her later and put two and two together. Besides which, it was strangely nice to have a conquest (or pre-conquest) to gloat about after two years of Gaila's stream of lovers. "Well, yes and no. He sent me the sweetest most awkward message while I was at home, and I just really don't want for him to feel like he has to handle me with kid gloves. It's been horrible, but I'm a big girl and I need support and distraction more than pity. And, unlike you, I consider sex to be an act of love. It's a sensible step, it's ... logical." She grinned, allowing a warm glow to partially cover the empty ache that she spent her days trying to ignore. "And his mother said something that made me think he might be receptive."

"You keep talking about his mother. Frankly, I think it's weird."

Uhura laughed half-heartedly throwing a pillow across at the other bed. "His mother's nice, and she understands her son well enough to give me tidbits of inside information."

_Like any other boy in love_, she thought. The words had imprinted themselves firmly on her mind ever since she first read them.

"Do you have a plan?" Gaila asked, sitting upright and looking as serious as Uhura had ever seen her look.

"A plan?"

The Orion sighed in frustration. "Commander Spock's a complex man. You need a plan. You can't just knock on his door and say, 'please sign for a booty call'."

Uhura rolled her eyes. "Because that was exactly my original idea." She shook her head. "I've thought about it a little. And I think the best thing is to be direct. He's not going to understand seduction – he's asked me about human mating rituals before, so I don't think it's been part of his study plan. Vulcans respect a direct approach."

"So you _are_ going to jump him?"

"No," Uhura said, drawing out the vowel. "I'm just going to ... engage his human responses before his Vulcan side can start over-analysing the situation."

Gaila nodded firmly, lying back down on the bed. "Very logical. He'd be proud."

*

When the door chimed, Spock frowned and checked the digital time display. His internal body clock knew that it was twenty-hundred hours, but he appreciated the confirmation. He knew of no appointments, nor of anyone that would call on him at such an hour. Students and Commanders alike were, for the most part, out in the bars of San Francisco celebrating a last night of freedom. "Identify," Spock requested, frowning at his data PADD. It was a most inconvenient moment. There were lessons to plan and mid-terms to design, not to mention the latest programming bugs that had hit the Kobayashi Maru. Kirk would be taking the test in the morning, and Spock was determined the conditions would be more impossible than ever. If any cadet needed a short, sharp lesson in losing battles, it was Cadet Kirk.

"It's me. It's Uhura," said the familiar voice, digitised and resounding through his rooms.

Spock blinked and put aside his data PADD. "Enter," he said.

When she walked through the door, he stood to greet her. She lingered in the doorway, as though experiencing a moment of indecision. It did not last long, however, and she quickly crossed the room to join him. "Good evening, Nyota. I had not expected you to return to the Academy so-"

He was cut off by the forcible pressure of her mouth against his. The sensation, which had become familiar over the preceding months, was neither unpleasant nor unwelcome, and Spock was quick to respond. His hand came up to her jaw, fingertips resting lightly against her cool skin as he moved his lips against hers. Her movements were insistent, more so than during previous kisses. Breath puffed over his skin, the fingers of one hand digging into his shoulder as she pulled him close and held him steady. Nyota's other hand came met with his, fingers running over his knuckles. She covered his hand with hers, rubbing her fingers between his.

On the outside, Spock murmured against her lips. Not a word, just a sound, an involuntary unintelligible vocal demonstration which was, even under the circumstances, unacceptable.

On the inside, Spock's senses were steadily becoming overwhelmed. Heart thudding and pulse rushing, deep purple mist pressing against his glass box which suddenly seemed quite fragile. Spock attempted to pull away, and when he opened his eyes he saw that Nyota watched him closely. Her own eyes were dark, and she too was breathing rapidly. Her emotions flooded over his mind, making it difficult for him to separate his thoughts from hers. "Nyota, wait," he murmured, intonation rising at the end of the syllable. Nyota had clearly misunderstood the tone of his voice, confusing it with passion or need rather than the thinly veiled fear that swam through his desire.

She pushed hard at his shoulders. Spock could easily have fought her off, but her thumb was still grazing over his palm in a way that made his breath catch in his throat. His eyes fluttered shut as he felt for the stool beneath him, and Nyota climbed eagerly onto his lap. She was too close, much too close, and he could feel nothing but her – the pressure of her legs against his and around his waist, her mouth sliding across his cheek towards his ears, her hands on his. It should all have been pleasurable, and it was, but Spock felt himself reeling with the sudden sensory overload. "I don't understand," he said, reverting naturally to his own language.

Nyota's hand shifted to his wrist and, as her fingers brushed his pulse point, he heard her mind resound with the words _Carpe Diem_. A language, almost certainly, but not one with which Spock was familiar in even his most logical state of mind. She brought his hand towards her, shifted it so the palm pressed flat against her, and she curled his fingers around the soft flesh of her breast. The texture and weight and very slight bump that he supposed, distantly, must be her nipple sparked against his nerve endings. Spock's other hand moved to her hip. He intended to try and shift her away, to remove her from him so he could discern some reason to what was happening.

"Spock, I want you," she whispered against his ear, before taking the lobe between sharp teeth. It certainly did not hurt, in fact made Spock shudder, his hands clenching around her thigh and breast. And inside his mind, that deep dangerous purple, pressing and pressing against the glass.

"Nyota," he tried once more.

Without his notice, her hand had snaked between them. In his current position – legs slightly spread in an effort to balance her weight on top of him, leaning back marginally to place as much distance between them as possible – he had inadvertently allowed her the perfect access.

When her fingers skated over and then squeezed his erection through the confines of his slacks, Spock closed his eyes and watched the glass box shatter. Feeling enveloped him, rushing into every part of his mental being, entirely uncontrolled. Undulating purple and black and swirling blue brightened and crystalised momentarily into blinding white.

His hand gripped her wrist. He felt the contact distantly, as though in a memory. His eyes were open and he saw expressions of surprise and lust clouding Nyota's face. "No," he said firmly. Were he in his normal state of mind, he might have noted that his voice was significantly deeper than normal, a steely stern thread driving the single syllable home.

"But," she began.

He would not let her bypass him again, not until he had regained control. "You have to leave." Again, his tonality brooked no argument.

Nyota looked wounded – there was no other word for the expression. And Spock felt so much pain at the twisting greens of guilt that suffused his system, effectively over-writing the all-consuming lust she had brought about. But, as over-wrought as it was, his Vulcan side knew that there was no logic in attempting any sort of reconciliation until he was once more in his proper state of mind. "Please," he added, as a compromise, though the word was barely whispered.

Spock saw her swallow, and she stumbled awkwardly as she rose up off him. She might have been crying, but Spock could not tell because he had already begun to place himself in the meditative trance that, he hoped, would restore him to himself.

*

That night it took five hours for Spock to reassemble his emotional cube. It was an exercise in patience, if nothing else. Each metaphorical shard had been scattered to a distant corner of his mental landscape, calling him to pull together each and every thread of himself in the reconstruction. Some of the shards were very small, and others might have thought it unnecessary to search for them. But Spock understood, particularly after that evening's events, how incredibly important it was that he make this cube as resilient as the last had been.

He did not resent what his father would have called a failing. For, once it was allowed to control him again, the calm of his logic told him that the duress and circumstances had been severely against him. As a half-human, he could not expect the full emotional control that a Vulcan might exert under such pressure. It was foolish and illogical to think as much.

He did not resent Nyota, either. She was entirely human and could have no conception either of the complexities of Spock's emotions and the vicarious control he had over them, nor of the emotional implications of her actions. Even if she saw the brilliant electric blue and deep purple when they held a telepathic connection, she had no key to tell her what they meant.

Finally opening his eyes, Spock saw the room around him exactly as it had been. Everything was once more in its place, his own mind frame included. One aspect of damage control completed, Spock stood to handle the other.

It was one thirty in the morning, but Spock saw no logic in leaving the situation to brew until the coming day. Judging from what he knew of human behaviour, he very much doubted Nyota was asleep anyway. He requested a communications channel with her room, and waited for her to respond.

After two minutes, and a second attempt, her image appeared dimly on his screen. "Spock, it's half past one and I don't want to talk to you right now."

"You are acting emotionally to an entirely involuntary response, Nyota. I advise that you let me talk to you before your subconscious is given the opportunity to invent a situation that does not exist."

He saw her shake her head. It bowed and he was no longer able to read her expression. Pastel-hued hope swirled in his reformed emotional cube, but Spock ignored it. Nyota had not broken their communication yet, raising his chances of success by nine-point-three per cent. "I have no desire to be overheard by your room mate. Would you return to my quarters?"

"She's not here," Nyota said, her voice muffled. She looked up and, on closer inspection, Spock surmised that she had been crying. "And I'm not going anywhere. You can say whatever you have to say over the comm."

"You are angry with me. And hurt."

"Very astute, Spock." She took a deep breath, and Spock allowed her to speak. "I've always believed sex really doesn't matter that much, because intelligence and humour and love are so much more important. But that really hurt, Spock. You dumped me out of your quarters without any kind of explanation."

"I was incapable of giving an explanation, and offer one now."

"And my mother's just died!" she continued, seemingly without having heard him. "I don't get why I'm even explaining myself to you. It's not like you can expect me to be Vulcan. You wanted me – I could _feel_ it, in your mind, like I do sometimes. You wanted me too, and you still rejected me. I just don't get it."

He lowered his calculations by six per cent, having incorrectly assumed her advances were an indication of having passed on from her grieving process.

"Go on then," she whispered, her voice slightly hoarse. "Let's hear it."

"I agree with your criteria for a suitable mate. We are of a similar intellect and disposition, despite the mitigating factors of our differing descent. And I find your company agreeable to an extent I have not experienced with any other person of my own age. Further to which, I have recently noticed I respond physically to you. As you so astutely put it, I have wanted you." She was leaning on her hand, the fingers covering her mouth making it more difficult to read her expression. Valiantly, Spock continued. "It is a reaction I have never experienced before. When you presented my body with such forceful stimuli, the matching emotional responses were ... overwhelming." He had considered trying to explain the metaphor of the glass cube, but doubted it would translate accurately. "Unlike true Vulcans, my self-control is incomplete. It is always present, but does not entirely hide my emotions from me. They are still there, but restrained. Because this has been the case since my earliest memories, I am unaccustomed to functioning without that control in place."

He thought he saw, for the briefest moment, a flicker of humour in her eyes. His chances of success rose by twenty per cent. "Are you saying I broke you?"

"Your analogy is flawed," he lied – for that was precisely what she had done. "But it will serve for the time being."

She sighed again, scrubbing a hand over her face. "You're here, which means Vulcans _have_ sex without going off the deep end. Do you just need ... time, or something? To speak to your Dad, maybe?"

"Impossible," Spock said, trying very hard not to imagine that conversation. "And unnecessary. I am already aware that Vulcan reproductive systems are programmed to function every seven years. That is how we mate."

This sigh was frustration. "You're capable of sexual intercourse, Spock. Not to be crude, but you were hard."

With a firm mental hand, Spock clamped down on his natural response, which was to blush. There was no logical reason for it – it was a perfectly natural statement of fact, and certainly not something of which he should be ashamed. "Physically capable, I agree. But not emotionally. Not yet."

Nyota nodded slowly. She sat up straight and Spock suspected he may have succeeded. "OK."

"I have offered an explanation," he said softly, "But not an apology. Though I was unable to express myself in any other way, I am still sorry to have been the cause of your current emotional state."

"It's OK, I'm fine." She was lying, but it was the sort of lie Spock had learned not to question. "Are you OK now?"

"I have completed a lengthy meditation session and have every reason to believe my emotional control is functioning admirably." Nyota nodded slowly, and took a deep breath that turned into a yawn. Spock knew he should allow her to return to bed and sleep before the coming day. But first, his lips quirking slightly, there was a question he wanted to ask, and thought she might just be in a state to answer. "A query before you return to bed?"

"Sure, why not?" Nyota mumbled around a yawn.

"One of your criteria for selecting a mate was love. May I ask if I fulfil this aspect?"

She raised an eyebrow at him, shaking her head as she smiled. "I haven't forgiven you enough to answer that question yet." She let him wait seven seconds before continuing, "Ask me again in the morning."

A single stiff nod was all Spock's response. The pastel green hope within him redoubled its efforts, but Spock held it firmly in check. "Good night, then, Nyota."

"Night-night."

She cut the transmission feed, and Spock was left to anticipate her answer to the question he would be sure to repeat in the morning.


	15. December Again

_Disclaimer: Star Trek ain't mine, but it makes me sad so we won't linger. Also not mine are the Leonard Cohen lyrics. Though I really wish they were._

_Author's Notes: Many thanks to Darry for a swift beta._

**December**

"_I did my best but it wasn't much_

_I couldn't feel so I learned to touch"_

"Snap!" Uhura said, slamming her hand down on the sofa over the pair of kings. With a grin, she looked up at Spock from under her eyelashes. His raised eyebrow reminded her of the way her dad used to be when they played Snap together. At the age of ten she'd lost count of the number of times she'd been told that the winner was the person who said 'snap' first, not who said it the loudest. "Sorry," she whispered in Vulcan, picking up the small stack of cards and placing them at the bottom of her hand.

"Your investment in the game is amusing," he said, watching the cards as he placed down a three.

"Sore because you're losing?" Uhura asked, knowing she was being impudent and cheeky. Spock's attitudes towards such behaviour seemed to have softened in recent weeks. Sometimes it even brought a slight quirk to his lips, almost as though he was growing fond of her predilection for teasing. She placed a seven on top of his three, eyes watching his fingers closely to catch the first glimpse of the next card.

"On the contrary," he said softly, laying down another three. "The effort I put into performance is secondary. My primary interest is in observing the effects of a highly competitive nature on a usually rational human. Besides a striking over enthusiasm, your body temperature is raised and your blood is pumping at a higher rate than normal. I have witnessed these symptoms in you before," his lips quirked again as he watched the growing pile of cards between them. "They are usually a response to arousing physical stimuli. Would you agree that the effects are similar?"

Mouth open, Uhura tried very hard to work out whether he was teasing her or being serious. Without thinking, she put down her next card – and in that moment of distraction, his hand came down on the couch between them.

"Snap," he said softly, his voice it's usual calm monotone. His eyes, however, were very slightly creased at the corners.

"Cheat," she muttered, scowling at the large pile of cards he added to his own hand.

Spock placed a jack between them, watching her once more. "On the contrary, my speculations were entirely honest. It was merely a fortunate tactical side-effect that they distracted you enough for me to gain an advantage."

Uhura shook her head. "Only you could play Snap tactically."

"I will take that as a compliment."

They played in silence a while longer, each winning a round or two. Uhura might have thought that Spock let her keep up, if he weren't so quietly competitive himself. Either way, she wasn't bothered. The longer the game continued, the longer she had an excuse to be with him – and even when they just sat and talked and played the stupid, childish game that had become their ritual, being around Spock still made her feel calm. The rest of Uhura's day was spent in a frenzy of studying and translations and Communications Protocol, as she tried desperately to distract herself from the lancing grief that still unexpectedly struck her from time to time. It never came in Spock's presence, though. Calm passivity radiated from him in gentle waves – not blocking out the emotional ache but neutralising it; treating it rather than hiding it.

Everything had been surprisingly normal since that fateful night when she'd made a serious error of judgement. She still found it frustrating that his touch drove her wild and she _knew_ he found her attractive, but knowing there was nothing they could do about it. But she wasn't going to give up their sparse physical contact.

A pair of kings made them both bring their hands down together. Spock got there first, and suffered the stinging slap of Uhura's over-eager hand on his. His eyes widened slightly, eyebrows drawing together. "I'm sorry, are you OK?" she asked, quickly soothing his sensitive hand with her fingertips.

"Surprise, not pain," Spock explained. He did not draw his hand away from hers. Instead, he turned it over so she could run her fingers along his palm. His ears were tinted green again, something that happened more and more lately. She thought it might lessen as he got used to the contact, but familiarity seemed to only make it more enjoyable for him, as she began to learn what kinds of contact he enjoyed and on which occasions. Spock wasn't the only one who could analyse physical responses to pleasurable stimuli.

Smiling, she rubbed small circles on his palm with her thumb, and leaned in for a kiss. Uhura's left hand leant on the table for purchase as she chastely pressed her lips to his. For once, it was Spock who deepened the kiss, and through the dual contact his mind brushed hers, showing traces of gratitude and simple happiness through the glassy confines of his emotional control. The changes in the feelings she occasionally experienced second-hand through their touch-telepathy had shifted subtly since their first kiss a year ago. She used to feel nothing but purple – which she suspected was lust or desire or something like that. And sometimes blue, which felt more innocent. She wouldn't presume so far as to label it 'love', but perhaps a derivative thereof, or love in its developmental stages. As the months flew by, much too quickly for her own liking, the blue remained and the purple still persisted, but there were now more complex layers. They formed a foundation, on which Spock built happiness or pleasure or joy, sometimes gratitude, and very recently a sort of bittersweet regret that was very pale blue-green.

For a man that everyone else assumed felt nothing, it was an impressive emotional spectrum. Uhura had a theory that Spock's tight rein on his emotions from an early age had actually had the opposite to intended effect – placing so much emphasis upon them had developed them further. They were controlled, but within the confines of that control they were many and complex.

Uhura moved closer again, cards falling to the floor. She pulled away, glancing down at them. "Whoops. Sorry, I'll get those."

She tried to move away, but Spock's other hand had come up to hold the top of her arm. He was looking at her with that same vague curiosity he had used during the game. But his fingers were running appreciatively over the palm of her hand, and the olive flush to his skin and dilation of his pupils made her suspect he was more deeply invested than she had anticipated. Spock's hand ran from her arm to her shoulder, then down her body until it rested on her hip. There it paused, a firm hot weight that eventually shifted lower again to her thigh. Through the contact of their hands, he was pushing something at her. Blue. Intense, stunning, surprising blue, barely threaded with glittering purple. And she knew what he was thinking, even if he himself didn't have the vocabulary to put it into words.

"Spock," she warned softly, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice as his fingers ran over the bare skin of her leg. "It's not fair to tease." He didn't stop, and Uhura swallowed, wishing she could have some of his self control. "You can just go and meditate for a few hours if this doesn't work out, but I have to go home and have a cold shower and feel miserable. It's not fair, Spock."

When it was clear she would not move towards him, would not encourage his tentative advances, he moved to her instead. Ignoring the cards scattered between them, he slid close enough to feel her leg against his and kissed her again. Against her lips he whispered, "You cannot touch me. In fact, if you could remain entirely still, that would improve the chances of satisfactory completion by approximately thirty-seven per cent."

"Spock, seriously? I'm fine. You don't have to do this."

He pulled back enough to look at her properly. His hand moved away from her hip, brushing hair back from her face as his eyes studied hers. A fingertip brushed her temple, and she felt him. His mind was not the rush and panic it had been when she had tried this. There was passion and desire and the not-quite-love swirling together inside him, but they were all where they should be – tucked away in a place where they wouldn't overwhelm him. She could feel that his control didn't extend to his physical responses, and found that just that knowledge gave her an added thrill of pleasure. "I want to," he whispered into the small space between them.

She took a deep breath, turning her body to lie comfortably on the sofa, slipping one leg beneath him and then crooking it at the knee to hug his waist gently. "OK. If you're sure. I'll do my best to behave myself – though that sort of defeats the object of the game."

His reply was muffled against her neck, as his hands resumed their overly tentative exploration of her body. "Small steps, Nyota."

*

Lying half-naked on Spock's sofa, his heavy weight half-resting on her, she pondered that Spock was not the efficient lover she might have imagined. Were she to focus purely on his deficiencies, she would say he was a little clinical, much too silent and needed pointing in the right direction on more than one occasion – this last, however, was true of almost anyone losing their virginity.

Uhura, however, had always considered herself a 'glass half full' kind of woman. And, sweeping his small defects aside, she recalled the intense effects of feeling his mind and his severely tested emotional control as they made love. He was not clumsy, and he quickly forgot to over-analyse the experience, instead enjoying (and perhaps trying to suppress) the sensations as and when they struck him. Furthermore, he had not immediately fallen asleep or thrown her unceremoniously from his quarters following his orgasm. He had politely enquired whether she required further stimulation and, having given a slightly amused confirmation that it had indeed been a very enjoyable experience, he allowed himself to slump somewhere between her and the sofa back.

His eyes were open, and he was watching her – as he had throughout. His hot hand rested on top of hers over her abdomen. Uhura's other hand ran over his silky hair. They had been silent for ten minutes and, through their connection, she suspected Spock was experiencing the Vulcan equivalent of after-glow.

She chuckled softly, and he raised his head to look at her the right way up. "You are amused." Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought he sounded very slightly worried. Maybe telling Spock that it was possible to laugh at people as well as with them had been a mistake.

"I was just thinking this would be a perfect moment for your mother to open up a communication."

Dark eyebrows drew together slightly, and Spock lifted himself upright. "We should re-dress," he said, clearly not seeing the joke.

Lazily, muscles feeling somehow simultaneously limp and stiff, Uhura reached over the side of the couch for her panties. She skimmed the plain white cotton up her legs, watching Spock with a small smile dancing over her lips. Vulcans were odd. Her touching him completely overloaded him, but he had no shame in wandering around his quarters buck naked.

Not that she was complaining.

Somehow, when he pulled his shirt over his head, his hair remained perfectly in place. Women everywhere would kill for his secret, she thought absently, then chuckled because after-glow had always made her giggly. He glanced at her as he stepped into his underwear. "You are behaving in a peculiar manner. May I ask the cause?"

Uhura shrugged, zipping her tunic back up. She pushed herself upright, crossing her bare legs and tugging her skirt down so it actually covered something. "I'm happy."

His head tilted to the side as he frowned and resumed his seat beside her. She couldn't help reaching out a hand and resting it on his warm, muscular thigh, running her thumb over his sparse leg hair. "You are not usually happy?"

"I'm extra-happy." Her lips twisted into a half smile, eyes twinkling. "If you want me to be specific, human orgasms release endorphins which makes us a bit silly."

"I, too, am experiencing a release of endorphins. But I do not believe my behaviour is adversely affected. Would you agree?"

Uhura looked at him closely, considering his question. She ran a hand down the side of his face. "You look relaxed. Your posture isn't as stiff as normal, and your face is properly relaxed. Usually it's just impassive, but you still keep it kind of stern. When you're completely relaxed, your lips naturally turn upwards at the corners." She smiled brightly, leaning in to kiss those up-turned lips. "It's nice. I like it."

He took her hands gently in his. That relaxed expression hadn't lasted long. He was serious again, and Uhura couldn't help the small sigh that escaped her lips. "I fear I did not perform well. And that you are disappointed." His gaze dropped, thumbs running over the backs of her hands. "I wanted very much to do it well – for you."

Uhura tugged gently, pulling Spock into an embrace that he did not reciprocate. Not that it mattered. She was perfectly happy with the feel of his body against hers, her arms circled around his waist. "You did just fine. And, you know what's really great? You'll get better!" She pulled back, enough to look at him so he could see her teasing smile and calculate just what her ratio of teasing-to-serious was. "Practice makes perfect." She pulled one arm away, bringing her hand up to ghost fingers across his temples. "How are you doing up here? Everything all right?"

"My control is in tact. Barely." His own form of a teasing smile. The right corner of his mouth turned up, his eyes met hers directly. One of his rarest expressions. "When you leave I will conduct further meditation. When we initiated intimate physical contact, I found meditating on self control helped me to develop a coping response for suppressing my body's reactions."

"Well, I'm not sure I like the sound of that," Nyota said, her thumb gliding over the shell of his ear, watching as the stimulation brought green blood to the surface, making the scant skin flush green. "I kind of like your physical responses."

"Such strictures will allow me to concentrate more on your pleasure, without being a slave to my own responses. I did not think you would object."

Grinning, she gave him one last kiss before standing. "You're right, as usual. Meditate away."

*

The following day, Uhura didn't think the smile left her face for so much as a minute. Life was good. She had been able to give Gaila a graphic run-down of her first sexual conquest since starting at the Academy – no matter how conflicted Gaila was as to whether she actually wanted to hear the information or not. Finals were coming and she was beyond prepared. Her secret source suggested she had received a second personal recommendation for service aboard the _Enterprise_ and that, furthermore, it may or may not have come from Captain Pike himself. And her day was ending with Communications Protocol, a class easy enough that she could daydream about Spock just as much as she wanted.

McCoy sat beside her, and was complaining quite happily about _damned_ nurses who couldn't do their _damned_ jobs. Uhura had no problem smiling and nodding because, quite frankly, nothing would bring her down.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied!" Gaila announced, sharply cutting across McCoy as she climbed over them both to reach the seat at Uhura's other side.

The doctor quieted abruptly, looking up at the Orion with a raised eyebrow. "Me? What did I do?" he asked.

"Don't worry, I think she means me," Uhura said, still grinning.

"You're freakin right I mean you. You and your lover-boy and your constant, detailed, _obsessive_ descriptions."

"You have a boyfriend?" McCoy asked, smirking slightly.

"It's complicated," Uhura replied.

"Complicated? It's _obscene_. I had to sit through a lecture with him for two hours. And he looks exactly the same as he always does, but you just _know_ he's all smug at having got laid." Gaila pulled out her PADDs and stylus, punctuating her sentences. "Oh, and that thing you said he did, with the..." she waved her hand around the side of her head, indicating her ears. "He caught me looking at him, and he totally did that. Uhura, he looked at me and thought of having sex with you. That's just disgusting."

"Maybe he was just reacting to you getting so caught up thinking about it," McCoy suggested smoothly. "After all, Vulcans are partially telepathic."

Both women turned to gape at him, Uhura's eyes darting about the room to ensure no one had overheard. "How did you know?" she whispered, a hand clamping down on his wrist.

"Because I'm not blind and neither am I stupid – contrary to popular opinion." The doctor looked distinctly smug as he sat back in his seat, resting his PADD on his knee. "I was married for twenty years. I know what a poor bastard looks like when he's whipped."

"Who's whipped?" Kirk asked, sitting down next to McCoy. Uhura turned to the front, pointedly ignoring him. If Kirk wanted to sleep around and it didn't do anything to Gaila beyond dent her pride, that was between them. But Uhura didn't have to like it. Especially not when she knew Gaila was still sulking, and probably for more intense reasons than she was letting on.

"This new girl Gaila's boning," Bones lied smoothly. Uhura raised an eyebrow, but kept her eyes front. Sometimes, just every once in a while, she could understand how a woman could love McCoy.

Kirk made no response. Uhura met the doctor's eyes briefly, and they shared a small smile. As the lecture began, he leaned in towards the woman he was glad to consider his friend and whispered, "Glad you finally rolled him into bed. Poor bastard needs someone to loosen him up a bit."


	16. Stardate 225844

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, and neither are the lyrics, which are from So Far Away by Staind.

_Author's Notes: Huge thanks to everyone who's beta'd various chapter through the course of writing this, but particular thanks to Dave, Darry and Kimberley for their immense support throughout. Conversational Vulcan is now officially __**complete!**__ But please stay tuned for the sequel, which will be posted in the next couple of days, entitled 'Time for Bed, Uncle Spock'. And finally, thank you so very very much to everyone who's been kind enough to leave feedback. You have no idea how much it means to me. __**Thank you!**_

Stardate 2258.44

"_Now that we're here it's so far away, and I feel like I can face the day,_

_I can forgive, I'm not ashamed to be the person that I am today"_

Uhura's first seventeen hour shift. If the scrawls on the Fleet Bar bathroom walls were anything to go by, she was now an initiated Starfleet officer. Scrubbing one hand over her face, and avoiding the small pot-holes left in the corridor by the recent skirmishes and narrow escapes, she walked down the corridor to her newly assigned room. Five days she had been aboard the _Enterprise_, and estimated she had spent about six hours total actually in that room. It had, therefore, not been as romantic as perhaps it should have been when, following the destruction of Vulcan, Spock had asked to move into her quarters to make room for the Vulcan refugees.

To the best of her knowledge, Spock was still technically relieved of duty and so should be in their quarters – though he was more likely to be with his father somewhere.

However, when she punched the door code and the door opened, she could see the room within was dimly lit. Spock stood at the window, his back to her, staring out into space. The _Enterprise_ was limping back through the solar system towards Earth, barely managing impulse power, and most of the Alpha shift had been encouraged to try and catch some sleep before they docked.

"Spock?" she said.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Nyota. You must want to sleep. Do you wish me to leave?"

Uhura walked slowly to him, resting a hand on the small of his back. She still wanted so badly to fix everything for him – even though there was no possible way to fix it and even though he had made it clear he didn't need it to be fixed. "Never mind me, when did you last sleep?"

He frowned very slightly. "Five hours before my previous shift," he said softly.

"OK, and you were relieved of duty ten hours ago? Eleven? That's around twenty-eight hours Spock. That's too long – even for a Vulcan – and you're half human. Come to bed, you need to sleep."

He took her hand so tenderly. Nyota would never fail to be amazed that, at this moment when his world had literally shattered, he still took the time to be tender to her. "It would be an exercise in futility." He took a breath, his eyes sliding back towards the window. It struck her that he was facing out towards the Laurentian System, the direction in which Vulcan should have been. "My mind refuses to calm itself into an appropriate pattern for sleep."

Uhura nodded slightly, her fingers tightening around his. "Humour me, OK? And if you still can't sleep, you can find your Father or run diagnostics somewhere or something."

Spock did not answer, but let Uhura pull him towards the bed. She shimmied out of her skirt and sat on the bed. Spock just stared blankly at her. "You can't sleep in your uniform," she told him.

Numbly he nodded again and pulled his shirt over his head, folding it neatly and placing it on the end of the bed. Uhura smiled slightly at the smooth planes of his chest, his complete comfort with his body. It was rare to find a man so content in his own skin. She held a hand out to him. "Come here and lie down." She manoeuvred him against her. He lay partly on his side and partly on his front, his head pillowed on her abdomen and arm wrapped around her waist. The rest of his body was perfectly straight, and Uhura wondered how he did that. It couldn't possibly be comfortable. But his breathing was soft and steady, and his brow had relaxed out of its frown. She wasn't about to complain.

Her hand ran down his back, palm flat against his spine. He was slender, but Uhura was pretty sure he still had some puppy fat alongside the muscle. Fingers reaching the small of his back, she swept to the side and pressed a little harder against the softer skin and tense muscle. Running diagonally back up to the top, she grazed her nails over his skin, then kneaded her thumb into the muscle of his shoulder. Spock expelled a breath against her stomach, and she smiled. Looking down, his eyes were open, but were at least lidded now. "Stop thinking," she whispered. "There's nothing to do and no where else to be for the next six hours. Sleep is the only logical course of action."

"I am deciding on contingency plans, wording reports, imagining possible eventualities. My mind has plenty to keep it occupied," he said against her.

"But none of it needs to be done now, Spock." Her hand came up to his head, stroking over his hair. "Try something for me?" He did not argue, which Uhura took to mean he had agreed. "Can you hear me breathing?"

"Yes," he said, his hand tightening imperceptibly against her waist.

"I want you to count my breaths – in your head, not out loud. But in a sequence, so it goes: one – one, two – one, two, three – like that."

He glanced up at her, a movement that shifted his torso closer to her side. Uhura smiled very slightly, sweeping her hand over his shoulder blades. She wanted to kiss him, but didn't want to displace him if he was comfortable. She settled for sliding her left hand over his where it wrapped around her waist. She felt his chest hum gently against her leg, and her smile widened. "Your suggestion is designed to occupy the logical half of my mind and allow the presumably tired human half of my mind to take over and let me sleep?"

"Exactly. My Mom used to make me do this when I was stressed out about exams."

"The circumstances are hardly comparable," he muttered.

"But the effect should be the same." She pressed his head back down against her belly, fingers running gently over his jaw. "Do the count up to twenty. If you're not asleep, you can go do whatever else you want to do, because at least I'll know you've rested for a while."

"Agreed," he said softly, hot breath puffing over her stomach.

Uhura counted with him, trying to keep her breaths long to make sure he'd have to concentrate. When she reached twenty-two and he still hadn't stirred she smiled slowly. Her hand still stroked up and down his spine, worried that if she stopped it would wake him. She shimmied down very slowly, very gently, and he still didn't move. His deep breathing and dead weight was a relief, but trying to slide into a comfortable position in which to sleep was not easy. Eventually she lifted his head into the crook of her shoulder and, leaning slightly over him, relaxed enough to fall into a deep sleep.

*

Five days later, things could almost be described as normal. They were back at the Academy. All the 'cadets' (who were now technically officers but without the scrap of validating paper) still had to go through the charade of attending classes, even though they could tell their professors a thing or two about reacting in a crisis or detecting the possibility of an ambush in a seemingly uninteresting sub-space transmission.

When Spock and Uhura dropped the pretence of practicing Vulcan together, no one – neither Uhura's friends nor Spock's colleagues – made any kind of protest. On the contrary, Captain Pike slapped Spock on the shoulder, and Spock imagined that the only reason for the gesture was to express pride in Spock's success at initiating and maintaining a relationship. When Gaila needed to get hold of Nyota in the evenings, she buzzed Spock and pointedly wouldn't look at the comms screen when they accept the transmission, just in case. The couple were still discrete, simply because they were discrete people. But there were no arguments when Uhura requested a half-day leave to join Spock when he went to the grass-land north of the city where the Vulcan Elders erected a memorial to those lost on Vulcan.

Rows and rows of white desert stone, the closest that could be found to the pale sandstone that made up the bedrock to the Vulcan deserts. The precise total had not yet been calculated, but they spread wide and deep over the green field. They surely could not even make up a small percentage of the number of the dead. Whole families were lost, leaving no survivors or friends to remember them, to request or engrave a stone in their name. Spock's family was fortunate in that respect, leaving two men behind to remember the lost – Sarek's brothers and their wives and children, and of course Amanda.

Spock left her without a word, holding a dozen thin white candles in his hand. Head bent, he walked along the rows of perfectly aligned stones. His father had preceded him a few days previous and, she suspected, directed him to the headstones he wished to visit. Spock did not pause or linger at any but those places at which he bent to light a candle and kneel for a few moments.

Uhura held only one candle. And she knew where she was going. The only non-Vulcan privileged enough to be included in the memorial was left to the peripheries. Sarek, who had led the Memorial Committee, might have been angered at the relegation of his wife. Except, of course, Vulcans didn't get angry. And it helped that, while technically on the fringes of the symbolic cemetery, Amanda's stone was at the corner and easily identifiable. Almost every visitor saw it as they passed – the only stone to bear a name in both Vulcan and Federation English.

Lighting her candle from one of the dozen others that surrounded the stone, Uhura placed hers among them. The flames flickered in the sparse breeze. She heaved a deep breath. She mourned on Spock's behalf, and a little for herself, for the only woman who could have given her insight into the man she was fast growing to love. "I would have liked so much to have met you," Uhura whispered, standing up. Her eyes were dry, as they had been at her own mother's memorial service, and the sadness within her was softer, and felt mostly for Spock who could not express his grief as she had.

"It is unusual to see a human here," said a voice behind her.

Looking around sharply, Uhura saw a Vulcan man. He was Spock's height, but a little slimmer across the shoulders. His age must be advanced, though it was difficult to tell with the extended Vulcan lifespan. His face was lined and his hair was gray. There was something odd about him, though. Odd and familiar, around the lined eyes.

"Did you know her well?" he asked, gesturing with one hand towards Amanda's grave.

Uhura shrugged, crossing her arms across her chest. She responded in Vulcan, in Spock's native dialect. "We wrote to each other sometimes. She was my boyfriend's mother," she said, repressing any embarrassment she felt at referring to Spock – or anyone – as her 'boyfriend' – but neither her Federation English nor the Standard Vulcan dialect provided a suitable alternative.

His eyebrow raised – an extreme reaction compared to other pure Vulcans, even given her extraordinary statement. "You mean Spock?" he asked her, his voice stressing the name.

"Yes," she replied, with more than a little pride. "Do you know him?"

And unless she was very much mistaken, that was an almost-smile on the old Vulcan's lips. "Not nearly as well as I would like." He bowed his head slightly, tilted just barely to one side. Something twisted inside her, like a stab of déjà vu. "Would you walk with me? I'm looking for a particular stone and my eyesight is not what it once was." He paused, regarding her steadily. "You seem to have a firm grasp on our language."

She nodded slowly, and turned to walk at his side. "What name are you looking for?"

"Her name was T'Pring."

"I'll tell you if I see that name. Traditional spelling, I assume?"

"Of course." There was a definite note of humour in his voice, and Uhura wondered if some Vulcans relaxed their emotional control late in life. She had always assumed it got stronger, rather than diminish with age.

They walked together in silence briefly, both of them glancing at Spock occasionally when they were not scouring the names on the stones. He had made his way to the other side of the site and had knelt before one of the many identical white stones. "I confess myself to be surprised, Miss?"

"Uhura," she replied smoothly, eyes scanning the next two rows of stones as they passed.

"Uhura," he repeated. The humorous tone lingered. Perhaps it was just the way he spoke. "I had not realised Spock had been fortunate enough to grow close to anyone during his time at the Academy."

"Spock has been helping me improve my regional Vulcan and Romulan dialects over the last couple of years. We found we had quite a lot in common." She glanced up at him. "Do you disapprove?"

"Not at all," the Vulcan replied without pause. "You seem a very capable young woman. I knew Amanda well enough to know better than to underestimate human women."

She was satisfied and rather pleased with his answer. Though a weight flattened in the pit of her stomach as she recalled not everyone shared this man's sentiments. "I think Spock intends to leave with his father. It's his responsibility to help re-build."

"Do you think so?" he asked.

The question was a surprise, enough so to make Uhura pause. "What I think doesn't matter. Spock will follow his logic. If his logic tells him 'go to Vulcan Beta' instead of 'have a glittering career in Starfleet doing what you've always wanted to do', then he's going to choose Vulcan. As he should." She stopped again, pointing at a stone three rows over. "That one says T'Pring. Is there only one?"

He stepped neatly over the rows and peered more closely at the stone and those surrounding it. His gaze paused on the one to T'Pring's left, which read, 'Stonn'. "This is the T'Pring for whom I search. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll leave you alone." She smiled briefly, tightly, and turned to walk back towards Spock.

"One question. Why do you wish for Spock to remain in Starfleet? Even if he did so, there is no guarantee you would be commissioned to the same vessel. And, without wishing to sound rude, Spock is very young. He may yet prove inconstant in some respect."

Uhura smiled at the thought. "I know, I'm cradle-robbing by Vulcan standards." She sighed and shrugged. "Spock's so dedicated, and he has qualities no one else in Starfleet possesses. I can't help thinking that staying on a colony and saturating himself in Vulcan culture would be a waste, when he could be spreading Vulcan culture across the cosmos."

"I believe you may be right," the older Vulcan said, with that almost-smile again. "I shall speak with him on the matter."

"That's sweet of you, but I think you and I are fighting a losing battle." Uhura had privately suspected for some time that the reason Spock had relaxed their social arrangements was because he was unsure how much longer they would have together.

"I have reason to believe he would accept my counsel." He nodded to a distant point behind Uhura. "Spock seems to be looking for you."

She glanced over her shoulder. Spock was, indeed, walking towards her, his hands now empty. "Thank you," she said quickly, and turned and walked briskly in Spock's direction.

He took her hand in his immediately, and she felt the rolling green turbulence of his grief. Swallowing, she squeezed his hand. "All done?"

"I have visited the stones of my childhood friends and relatives. Shall we return to the Academy?"

"You don't want to stay for a while, talk to anyone?" Uhura checked. "I don't mind."

Spock shook his head slowly, steering them back towards the city. "I have already made contact with my father's acquaintances and expressed the correct terms of empathy. This is not a place for, as humans say, 'small talk'." He glanced at her. She half-hoped to see his small smile, but his human eyes only looked sad. "With whom were you speaking?"

"Oh, I didn't get his name. But he said he knew you and your parents. He it sounded like he knew you well. It was strange, actually. I said I was your ... girlfriend," her eyes flicked guiltily to his, but he was impassive as always, "and he asked me to help find a stone for someone called T'Pring."

Spock's eyebrow rose. "How odd," he murmured.

**Epilogue**

From the other side of the cemetery which held no bodies, only white non-Vulcan stones that stretched as far as the eye could see, Spock watched himself walk away. It had been a long time since his own days at the Academy, but he was certain he had not even laid eyes on Lieutenant Uhura until they were both stationed on the _Enterprise_. It was surprising how such a painful, cataclysmic event could spark a small wonder.

His logic, which had not sustained any ill-effects from the ravages of time, back-tracked through the parallel lines of the two Spock's lives. Had the _Nerada_ not intercepted the _Kelvin_, it would be another twenty-five years before the humans encountered any Romulans. The sudden disaster had, no doubt, spawned an immense interest in Romulan culture and formulating intelligence on the Romulan culture. Of course a dedicated Xeno-linguistics student would want to gain practice in such a rare language, and it was only logical that she search for the best teacher of the language: the only Commander in Starfleet who had the correct physiology to pronounce the language accurately, if not proficiently.

Had he encountered Lieutenant Uhura while they were both young, before either had been hardened by the inevitable tragedies one encountered on a starship; had they not been so entirely involved in their own fields of study to look up for long enough to notice each other. Perhaps their timeline would have held more similarities.

Spock was satisfied with the life he had lived. It had been long, and he had achieved great things as well as making many friends. But he had never loved – not in the way he suspected his counterpart did or would. His own arguments were perfectly logical. It was possible they would be stationed apart, though he very much doubted it. The timeline seemed determined to right itself, and he had kept a close acquaintance with Uhura for many years after the completion of their initial mission. He was fairly sure that he could persuade the younger Spock into remaining in Starfleet. Though, whether Spock achieved as much in love as he would in his career, only time would tell.


End file.
